


Uncertainty

by Popcornjones



Series: Adventures of the Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock-AU
Genre: Abduction, After the Fall, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Drug Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Heavy Angst, Hospital, Hospitalization, Hurt Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Prison, Protective John, Rape, Reichenbach Fall, Separation, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smut, SometimesTOPSswitch, Threat of Rape, Top John, Top John Watson, Torture, getoverit, references to rape, reichenbach fall au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-01-06 14:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 100,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: Returned home from The Incident At Wallog – where a feverish Sherlock confessed his love to John, and John DIDN'T run screaming – Sherlock and John attempt to make sense of their relationship.





	1. Flu and Confusion

SHERLOCK 

My body had betrayed me. 

I was in the habit of using my transport however I wished – eschewing sleep and food, sprinting through London, leaping from building to building, playing my violin all night, smoking, taking cocaine or meth or whatever interesting prescriptions I found in Mummy's medicine cabinet, getting into fistfights or knife fights, hiking in the winter rain without proper gear...

I wasn't in my twenties any longer, not by a few years, but surely I wasn't 'getting old' yet. I wasn't even forty!

I hadn't been this sick since rehab – the strep infection had been the tipping point, I was so sick even the cocaine couldn't make my brain work properly. I ended up in hospital. Detoxing is a horror. Detoxing with a rampant strep infection almost killed me.

 

\---

 

We arrived back at 221b Baker Street Wednesday afternoon no less exhausted for having slept most the way. John limped directly into the shower and I went to my room, stripped off and collapsed into bed. My head was pounding, my sinuses clogged, my lungs were heavy and I was developing a cough that raked across my raw throat like gravel. It was misery itself.

...I awoke in the dark with the certainty that Moriarty was free. He was coming for me.

My heart was racing. I gripped the sheets tightly, fighting vertigo, trying to orient myself in the waking world. Moriarty was in jail – he'd been denied bail! He was in jail and he'd go to prison after his trial.

Relief flooded my body. I almost wept as my fears were allayed... but they weren't, not completely. It bothered me that he'd let himself be arrested, that he'd done the criminal equivalent of sending out engraved invitations to New Scotland Yard – and to me. Moriarty had a long game, that was certain. What did going to prison accomplish?

Once again I came to the conclusion that Moriarty didn't intend to be convicted. He didn't intend to go to prison. It was all place setting for some larger purpose. A larger purpose that most certainly involved me. He wasn't a free man, but I had to assume he would be free in the future. I had to be prepared.

I snapped on my lamp and cringed from the sudden blast of light. As my eyes adjusted, I discovered John had put a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen on my bed table. He'd also plugged my phone into the charger and put that in its usual spot there too. 

"Bless you, John Watson!" I mumbled, swallowing four of the pills. 

John. 

Moriarty had used him against me once already. He would again, given the chance. I couldn't allow that. What wouldn't I do to protect John?

A fit of coughing interrupted my train of thought and I sipped more water. I staggered across the hall to slash and when I glanced in the mirror, I saw that I was naked.

I scoffed at myself. I'd been SO careful since John moved in to NEVER be naked outside the bath – with the door firmly closed and locked. It was instinctive, hiding the piercings from him. He'd felt no compunction about being shirtless in front of me – I'd memorized his sinewy shoulders, his taut chest with the thatch of ginger fur between his pectorals, the sweet softness of his abdomen, ginger around his navel, trailing under his waistband... I'd wanted to trace that scar with my lips, memorize it, rub my face against his fur, follow it down...

I shook myself. I'd wanted John to believe I was something other than what I was. I wasn't ashamed... I'd simply hidden what would have put him off me. I'd been doing that for years – ever since University when I chose to partition my sex life from my professional life with surgical precision. 

Cat was out of the bag now – John knew my secrets. At least some of them ... how aware he was of my lust for him, I didn't know. 

Was it a mistake, letting the line between my two lives blur?

I woke again in the morning light. I could hear John in the kitchen and listened contentedly for several minutes... until my dried out and aching throat drove me out of bed for tea.

"The dead rise." John greeted me with a smile. "Tea's made." He nodded at the pot and I lunged for it gratefully. "How are you feeling?"

"I..." I was overcome by a coughing fit that threatened to turn my lungs inside out via cheese grater. It was bad enough that John was on his feet rubbing my back, handing me his handkerchief.

"Go lay down on the couch." John told me. "I'll bring your tea."

I did as he bid, curling in on myself in misery. John brought me a cuppa then disappeared, returning with a blanket and pillow. He covered me then sat on the coffee table and pet my hair. I sighed, his hand felt good – as good as possible whilst still wanting to die.

"I'm going to the chemist to get you something for that cough." John said. "There's sugar in your tea, try to drink it."

I nodded. I listened to John moving about the flat, finishing his toast quickly, putting on his shoes and coat. He was definitely still favouring one of his legs. 

"I'll be back in a while." He said. "The remote is by your tea. Your phone too." John was so thoughtful! 

Not quite thoughtful enough to bring me codeine, but he's so touchy about opiates, I didn't really expect it. Even though I'd kipped while he was out, I didn't have the energy to complain.

The medicine he did bring took the edge off my suffering – enough that I felt like sitting up and eating the chicken soup John had brought for me as well. I turned on the telly and flipped through channels. 'Die Hard' was on Cinema Classics, John loved that film. I finished my soup and tea and lay back down listening to Alan Rickman's baritone... I used to be able to do a pretty good Hans Gruber impression...

I woke later to see John furiously texting. He didn't realise I was awake, he was so intent. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, I could see his phone – he was texting with Mariah. Of course he was. John was always texting with his girlfriend.

What had I been thinking? John chased after anything in a skirt – he'd pulled on three continents! He was getting a leg over with Mariah... how had I thought I might tempt him away... I was an idiot.

My brain didn't function properly when I was sick. I hated the thick, turgid quality of my thoughts... I hated that I couldn't deduce or investigate. Through the haze of illness, the world was opaque. Is this how other people lived all the time? How did they bear it?!

I stayed on the couch all day and all night, dozing in and out of consciousness. I left it only for the toilet and for tea. 

John went out early on Friday, his limp pronounced as he made his way down the stairs. He hadn't said where he was going but when he returned many hours later he was using his cane. His uneven steps on the stairs woke me and I greeted him with raised eyebrows.

"I went for a scan." He admitted. "Hip fracture – all the sprinting and tackling made it worse, I guess. No running, no cycling, no long walks. I have to use the cane for the next three weeks at least."

He looked absolutely despondent. I rubbed his back and he leaned wearily into my hands. "I'm sorry, John." I croaked – it was my fault after all. If I hadn't gone hiking in a hurricane...

John smiled wanly in my direction. "It's just a month. It'll heal."

"Did they give you something for the pain, at least?"

This time when he smiled, there was real humour sparkling in his eyes. "No." He said. "I don't need it."

"But..."

"I'd overdo it." John said, standing up effortfully. "If it didn't hurt. I want it to heal."

As he limped away, I wished I could follow him, wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly – comfort him best I could. But I was leaking infectious yellow mucous and coughing germs from my shredded lungs... and we hadn't talked, hadn't worked out any of those 'details' John had referred to at Wallog. As far as what our relationship was evolving into, I was in the dark.

John sat down with me, before he went to bed, lifting my feet into his lap. 

"You look terrible." He said, stroking my ankles idly.

I didn't bother answering. John's hands on my skin was too distracting. He'd never touched my ankles before. It was sublime – sensual and decadent. Were I not so desperately ill, my body would be aflame. I glanced up at him, he was calm, almost absent-minded. John had no idea what he did to me.

"Did you eat today?" He asked, hand wandering up my shin.

"Too sick." I muttered.

"Sherlock, you need your strength. I'll make you something." John started to push my feet off his lap.

"No." I said quickly, propping myself up on my elbow. "Don't go... not yet."

John looked at me and smiled softly. "I'll just be a minute, then we can sit together." He said. "I'll come right back."

I was loath to let him go, but he was determined.

"Barley ok?" He called from the kitchen.

I made some sort of noise. I didn't care in the least about the food. But John took it as affirmation. Five minutes later, I was propped up and sipping hearty barley broth from a mug.

John surfed channels while I drank the soup, finally settling on a nature documentary about dung beetles that was mildly interesting.

He took my soup mug when I'd finished and let me lay my head in his lap. He stroked my hair and I slowly relaxed. 

We stayed like that for a long while. John never seemed to tire of running his fingers gently through my curls. I dozed feeling safe and cared for.

Eventually, though, John roused himself and went upstairs to sleep in his own bed. I kipped on the couch again, forlorn and abandoned. I didn't know what to make of him – attentive one moment, texting with Mariah the next, and disappearing from the flat for six or eight hours, returning drawn and footsore. 

I woke on Saturday to find John out of sorts. He nursed me, giving me tea and toast and making sure I took ibuprofen and cough syrup, but he was tense. Even my thick, slow brain could see that. I didn't ask why. 

John received a text alert and pulled his phone from his pocket. "I have to go out again." He announced. From where I was, I could see it was another text from Mariah. My heart sank.

"Will you be home tonight?" I asked, regretting it immediately.

"Of course." John said distractedly.

"You don't have to." I said, trying to conceal my bitterness. "It's fine if you..."

He cut me off. "When was the last time you had a wash? You smell like a bear."

With that John took his cane and stumped up the stairs to his bedroom.

I pretended to be asleep when John left for his date.

"I won't be late." He said. John waited a moment but when I didn't answer, he sighed and stumped down the stairs.

As soon as the front door shut, I got up and drew a bath.

I was clean and wearing fresh pajamas when John returned, but I was exhausted from the effort. I'd turned off the lights and the telly and was dozing on the couch, my breath rough and painful in my lungs.

John came right over and sat on the floor, resting his head on the couch by my chest. I touched his hair lightly, wondering why he hadn't stayed overnight with her. Wondering if he'd got a leg over anyway. Wondering what he expected of me.

He caught my fingers and brought them to his lips. I held onto his hand and he seemed content.

The next few days were much the same – I slept on the couch, took medicine for my cough and for sinus pain. When John was home, he spent time with me, but he didn't rest enough. He walked too much too often. His hip was clearly hurting him.

"I can heat soup." I told him on Monday. "You sit down." 

John looked like he would – but my traitorous body coughed, the fit overtaking me. Before I finished hacking up a lung, John had started for the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. 

"I'm not touching anything you make, Typhoid Mary. Lie down. Kettle's boiled."

He'd left his phone on the coffee table. His text alert sounded, the lockscreen lit up and I saw the text was from Mariah. I read it reflexively – 'John, I love you!' 

I felt ill in an entirely different way.

John brought me a cuppa as the alert sounded for the second time. He picked up the phone and looked at her text. Then he put the phone in his pocket. He didn't answer her in front of me. I guessed that was the etiquette in these sorts of situations.

After that, I kept track. I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop myself. She texted him more now than she had before. I found I hated her – more emotion than I'd ever wasted on one of John's insipid girlfriends. It wasn't her fault, I knew that, but I couldn't be angry with John.

Despite being affectionate and attentive, John continued sleeping in his own bed, never any indication he thought of anything else. He went out regularly – to see Mariah, I assumed. But sex didn't cheer him as it had before Wallog. 

I was still a coughing, hacking, phlegmy mess, the better I felt, the more desperate I was to avoid passing it on to him – almost as desperate as he was to avoid contracting it, if the number of times he washed his hands was any indication. We maneuvered around each other tentatively and I began to wonder if he regretted what had passed between us at Wallog.

I wanted John as much as ever. The better I felt, the more distracting his presence – I couldn't stop thinking about how he'd touched me... how I wanted him to touch me...

 

\---

 

I started taking cases via email midweek. John spent hours away from the flat almost every day, returning looking worn out and leaning heavily on his cane. I had no doubt – from the frequency of her texts – that he spent at least some of that time with Mariah.

"I brought curry." John announced as he painstakingly achieved the second floor landing.

I was engaged in a minor case that had me googling the local news in Brighton, so I didn't bother to look up. "Fine."

"What happened here?!" John's distress and anger penetrated, he had my attention. "When I left, this kitchen was clean."

Oh, that. "I had to run a small experiment. For a case." I explained.

"That entailed dirtying every dish we own and leaving them on every flat surface?! Never mind! I don't care. Just come clean this up, yeah?"

I'd found what I was looking for in Brighton. "As soon as I finish this email." 

John's sigh was more angry than put-upon. He dropped the bag of takeaway on the table and started limping up to his bedroom. I hated hearing him on the stairs – he never complained, but it was obviously painful. 

I had the dishes washed, dried and put away within twenty minutes. I dished out the curry and heated it in the microwave. I carried John's up to his room. 

I rarely went to John's room – not when he was in it anyway, I'd searched it any number of times over the years. I was as familiar with its contents as I was with John himself. It was a soldier's room, squared away with very little that was extraneous. The bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers had come with the room, he'd added a chair and a bookcase. He had some medical books, and some books on popular music on the bookshelf – the Beatles, David Bowie, that sort – but mostly he had novels. Mystery novels, spy novels, science fiction and suspense novels. I found this minor addiction to pulpy fiction charming, though I'd never admit it to him.

When I came into the room, I saw that John's bed was, as always, pristine – hospital corners without a wrinkle in the green coverlet. He'd hung two framed album covers on the wall – Eno's Here Come The Warm Jets and Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band – since I'd been in the room last. His duffel was, as usual, on top of the wardrobe. John was sitting in his chair with a novel in his lap.

"I brought your dinner." I said. 

"Where's yours?" John asked.

"Downstairs. I didn't want to intrude."

John heaved himself to his feet, leaning on the cane and the chair. "Let's go down then."

I retreated back to the kitchen, listening to John stumping down the stairs. He sat down as I got us water. "Do you want a beer?" I asked him. "Wine?"

"A beer would be great, yeah." He said. "It's been non-stop today. I don't think I sat down once."

So he was working again – he hadn't spent time with Mariah. I wondered what clinic or hospital had employed him this time. My brain was slowly clearing, becoming more fascil, but if it concerned John, my thoughts remained stubbornly turgid. They circled lugubriously refusing to take form.

"How are you feeling?" John asked as I sat down.

"Better."

"I see you got dressed."

I looked down at myself. "Clearly."

John took a swig of his beer. He set it down and held his hand out to me. I wasn't certain what he wanted, but I tentatively put my hand in his. He squeezed it and smiled at me. "Thank you for cleaning up the mess." He said. I smiled back at him and for a moment we sat there, holding hands across the table. Butterflies erupted in my stomach as he ran his thumb across my knuckles.

Then his text alert sounded and John's smile vanished. He let go of my hand and pulled his phone out. He glanced at the screen then put the phone back in his pocket. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I have to go out." He said. "After dinner."

"Oh." He was going to see her. He was exhausted and in pain and he was going to go see her anyway. The curry tasted like wet cardboard all of a sudden. 

"Where are you going?" John asked me.

I realised I was on my feet. "Bed." I said. "I don't feel well."

"I thought you felt better."

"I do... I did. I'm not hungry." I quickly scraped my dinner back into the takeaway container. John protested but I escaped to my bedroom. I had to make my peace with Mariah – not with her personally, but with the idea of her. John was straight. He might love me, but he was straight. He wasn't going to give up sex. I shouldn't expect him to. I couldn't run and hide every time he went to see his girlfriend. I couldn't get angry or throw a tantrum no matter how much I wanted to. 

I laid on my bed and listened to him in the kitchen. Then I listened to him get ready and then I listened to him leave the flat, laboriously descending the stairs.

John came home late – but not as late as I expected. I was back on the couch watching telly when I heard him on the stairs. As soon as I saw him, I could tell he was pissed. He came right over to me and sat down, still wearing his coat. It was cold and his nose was red.

"Sherlock." John said, leaning against me. "I wish you weren't sick. Do you know what I'd do to you?" He nuzzled my neck, his lips hot against my flesh. 

I melted into him, forgiving him everything. His hands caressed my thighs, moving upwards and my cock definitely noticed. The things I would do with him! The pleasure I would wring out of his body with my hands and my mouth! He would be amazed, transported... John would be mine...

For a moment my weariness and congestion were forgotten. My blood surged and the heaviness in my lungs felt like lust. I unbuttoned John's coat, with frantic fingers, and pushed it back from his shoulders... 

I smelled it then, on his wooly jumper: along with the scent of ale and cigarettes: perfume.

I froze, my mind racing through the catalogue of perfumes – not that I needed to, I had recognized the scent immediately. It was the particular Obsession knockoff that Mariah favoured. I'd smelled it on him before.

John had come directly from her to me. 

He kissed my jaw and I smelled the liquor on his breath. If he'd been less drunk, he would have had a wash first. 

If John had been less drunk, he wouldn't be initiating sex with me.

"I...I don't want you to catch this." I stuttered, pushing him away.

"Sherlock..."

"No, you can't get sick too, John." I backed away from him, almost falling off the couch. "I'd best get to bed." I fled to my bedroom for a second time that evening, pressing myself against the closed door. My neck burned where his mouth had been, I wanted him so much! If only he hadn't smelled of her...

But I wanted him sober, not so pissed he barely knew what he was doing.

A few minutes later, I heard him crashing about and swearing. I was with him in an instant, keeping him upright, helping him pick up his cane and navigate the stairs – I carried him up the last few. I helped him to his unwrinkled bed and pulled off his shoes. 

"Sherrrrrrrlock..." He muttered. 

"You're drunk, John." I told him. "Sleep it off."

"Sleep with me." He grasped at my hands, trying to draw me down with him.

I pushed him back onto the bed, wishing again I couldn't smell the perfume on him. "Not tonight." I said, my stomach churning. I felt deeply ambivalent, wanting him desperately yet repulsed at the same time. I left quickly.

I had been up and dressed for hours the next day before John emerged, heavy-lidded and slow. I'd been contemplating whether he'd gotten drunk to gird his loins for sexual contact with another man – me – or if, drunk, he'd simply been uninhibited enough to attempt it.

John sat at the table, shielding his eyes from the light, groaning a little each time he moved. I left him alone, I had a... well, honestly, a not very interesting case, a five if I were being generous. I took my time with it, though the answer had been obvious after a few minutes. 

My mind palace. I hadn't been there since before I got sick – since before I saw Victor again. He had destroyed my equilibrium in ways I hadn't fully appreciated. 

The illness had receded enough now, I accessed my mind palace easily. It was a relief – I had missed retreating there. It was my refuge from the messier parts of life. Here I could put Victor – all my ambivalent feelings about Victor – away. I put it all in a drawer and closed it. 

And here I could brood about John. I wanted him. That wasn't new, I'd wanted him from the beginning. I'd never intended for him to know – but he'd surprised me when he found out. He hadn't been disgusted, he hadn't pitied me, he hadn't done any of the things I'd imagined... l felt the hope surging through my chest again. Maybe... maybe John could love me the way I loved him...

I couldn't share him, I knew that now. I'd thought I could. I'd thought that there wasn't a deal I wouldn't make if I could have John... but the thought of him with his girlfriend (any girlfriend) turned my stomach.

The way he'd been on the train back from Wales... John had pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. He'd murmured in my ear: that I was brilliant, that he loved watching me work, that he didn't know what he'd do without me.... I'd slept with my head on his shoulder, his cheek tucked against my neck. Despite my illness and exhaustion, it had been perfect.

What was I going to do? I had to talk to him... but every conversation I played out in my head led eventually to the same conclusion – one of us moving out, our estrangement.

Damn the fever that had loosened my tongue! I'd never factored anything like it into my calculations. Without it I would still be secure, still know I had John's regard and friendship... now I had naught but worry and foolish, foolish hope...

"You don't mind, do you?" John asked. 

I blinked. He'd touched my arm when he'd spoken, bringing me out of my reverie. His hand still rested on my wrist.

"What?"

John gestured at the telly. He had tuned into a rugby game. "You don't mind if I watch this?"

"Have I ever?" I replied. I hadn't ever minded – I didn't mind. "Why would I start now?"

"Just being polite. You should try it sometime."

John was smiling at me. He'd bathed and dressed, and eaten obviously. His cane rested against the couch next to him.

I felt flustered – still half in my mind palace, but very aware of his hand warm on my wrist. To cover, I checked my email again. No other cases... that was inconvenient. I needed stimulation now that I wasn't sleeping all day. I could open Grindr, see who wanted to hook up. But that was useless – even before John had given me hope, I'd lost interest in fucking around. I missed the outlet, the release, but I knew it wouldn't satisfy me now 

I could start that experiment on the chemical breakdown of hemoglobin after death I wanted to run. Or work on the monograph I was writing about counterfeit DNA left purposely at crime scenes...

I was running a chemical experiment right now – the effects of John Watson on my brain chemistry. Having him in the same room was distracting... and wonderful. I loved having him close. But the uncertainty... I couldn't stop thinking about what our relationship was now, what it might become. I knew what I wanted. I had never thought to have it... but John had dangled the possibility in front of me and, sucker that I am, I'd reached for it with both hands. 

I wish I knew what I'd grabbed hold of.


	2. More Fool Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wishes Sherlock didn't have the bloody flu – he wouldn't have waited to show Sherlock exactly how he felt.

JOHN

Flattered.

The first thing I felt when Sherlock said he loved me, that he wanted me, was immensely, incredibly flattered.

No, that's not true. The first thing I felt was shock. The shock of something unexpected... yet unsurprising. The shock of discovering the momentous. The shock of realising your life is about to change in unknowable ways.

Then I felt flattered. And... interested. I never thought I'd be interested in a man... but Sherlock is beautiful – I'd noticed. Of course I'd noticed, I'd have to be blind and deaf not to notice Sherlock's beauty, strange and alien as it was sometimes. Everyone noticed. I'd seen enough women and men throw themselves at him to be grateful for the awkward little scene in Angelo's that first night. Sherlock had warned me off – not that I would have been foolish enough to make a move on him regardless.

But now, knowing that he was in love with me... 

I loved him. I'd loved him for a long time – he was my best mate. He'd saved me from the oppressive emptiness that certainly would have killed me. He'd given me so much! I'd offered my own life in the hope he might escape when we faced off with Moriarty. It was safe to say I loved Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't a big leap from that to being 'in love' with him. Maybe I already was in love with him – I just couldn't admit any anomalous bisexuality to myself... why not? What was the big deal? Because it had never happened before didn't mean it couldn't happen. And now that it had, I didn't want to be afraid of it.

He wanted me, I wanted him...what was the problem? I wished he hadn't had that bloody flu, I would have kissed him right away. I would have made love to him – I wouldn't have given either of us time for second thoughts. 

But he WAS sick. And I couldn't stop thinking about Victor. Victor with his broad chest and big biceps, with thighs bigger round than both of mine together... how could Sherlock look at me when he could have someone like Victor? When he'd HAD Victor.

I know what I am and I know what I can do. I'm handy in a fight and I'm a crack shot – not to mention I'm a damn good doctor. But even at my peak, I've never been a fit specimen like Victor Trevor. I know what I look like – 'pleasant' is about the best I can aspire to. Unpreposessing is what most people think, if they think of me at all. 'Comedic' is something I guard against.

I'm not sure what Sherlock sees in me. Or what he thought he saw – it's beginning to be apparent he regrets telling me. He's changed his mind, he isn't so keen on me after all.

And that makes sense to me. Looking at Sherlock and looking at me – and looking at Victor – second thoughts make sense. A lot more sense than Sherlock wanting me.

 

\---

 

I got drunk last night. I hadn't intended it. I went out for a pint with Stamford.

"Oh fuck" I swore.

"What?" Mike asked.

"My ex just walked in." I tried to hide behind Mike, but she'd already seen me.

"Who? Her?" Mike craned to look. "She's a fit bird. She get fed up with Sherlock?"

"In a manner of speaking." I said. I wasn't about to tell Mike about Sherlock and me until I was certain there WAS a Sherlock and me. "Mariah." I greeted her unenthusiastically – she'd made a beeline for our table. "This is my friend Mike. Mike, this is Mariah." I couldn't help but think that if Sherlock hadn't spoken at Wallog, I'd be introducing Mike to my girlfriend. It was awkward. "How are you?" I tried to keep a mask of pleasant politeness in place.

"I'm shocked, John." Mariah said, leaning close to kiss me in a rather friendlier greeting than I was comfortable with. "You have mates OTHER than Sherlock."

"Very funny." I said. I still had some feelings for her – that didn't disappear overnight. I didn't want to be a dick to her. But she was rapidly burning through my goodwill: since I'd broken it off, she hadn't stopped texting me, cajoling me to reconsider.

I'd barely thought of her at Wallog, even before Sherlock's fevered admission. I was ashamed to realise I liked having sex with her a lot more than I liked HER. Breaking up would have been the right thing to do even if I wasn't involved with another. But she didn't see it that way.

"My turn for a round." Mike said. "What can I get you, Mariah?"

"What are you doing here?!" I asked her when Mike left the table. 

"What do you mean, John? I came for a drink."

"So it's a coincidence? You coming HERE now?"

"What else could it be?" She asked, her eyes wide and innocent.

I couldn't accuse her of stalking me – other than the endless texts and emails (which I had stopped answering days ago), I had no proof.

"Your friends won't miss you?" I asked lamely.

"Oh them." She waved dismissively at the group she'd come in with. "They're ok." She smiled sweetly at me. "I've missed YOU, John."

I had no answer for that – no polite answer, anyway, which I guess she'd been banking on. She spent the rest of the evening with us, standing close to me, her hand on my arm often, pressing herself against me a few times. I remembered when I first met her this behavior had been charming, encouraging. When I'd been seeing her a while, I thought she was getting a bit needy. But that could have been a reaction to Sherlock being a twat to her (as he was to all my girlfriends – something I suddenly understood). I had been getting a leg over, so I ignored it. 

But breaking up with her... she was a limpet, impossible to dislodge.

I had intended to make an early night of it. But somehow, I found myself staying later and later. Mike seemed taken with Mariah, happy to have her drinking with us – and she kept the pints coming. At some point we switched from beer to whisky...

In the end, I went home drunk.

"John... come home with me." Mariah had begged as we left the pub, tugging on my arm.

"Mariah, we're not together anymore. We broke up."

"A little breakup sex never hurt anyone."

"Mariah, I'm not interested."

"I think I can interest you." She'd pawed at my cock through my jeans."

"Get off! Come on now." I'd tried to put her off without getting violent – it was harder than it should be. I would have no problem if a man had been threatening me, but I wasn't about to use hand-to-hand combat on my ex-girlfriend.

Then she'd started to cry, still clinging to me, her arms around my neck, her breasts pressed against my chest. "Why are you being so mean, John? That's not you!"

It WASN'T me. But I wished it were, it would be easier to get rid of her. Finally I hailed a cab and put her in it – half pretending I was getting in behind her. I leaned in and gave her address to the cabbie, tossed him a £20 note, and shut the door on her. I blessed the man for driving away before she could open it again and try to drag me with her.

I walked home – despite my bloody hip. I was pissed enough, I was feeling no pain. I wanted to sober up.

Sherlock was still up... 

He looked absolutely lovely in his too-small t-shirt, his hair rumpled, his lush lips dark red on his pale face, his eyes so sharp. He could see right through me. Even the chapped pink of his nose was enticing.

I wanted him. His long, ivory neck was hot under my lips, his shoulders flexed powerfully as I caressed him. I could feel his heartbeat fluttering, racing... he wanted me too, I felt it in his body, the way he pressed himself against me, held me with his strong hands...

I was drunker than I'd realized, but not so pissed I wasn't disappointed when Sherlock put me off. I couldn't blame him – I was a wreck. Embarrassing, really, having to be put to bed like a child. It's been a long time since I was that blasted.

But the thing that stayed with me was how good it felt to touch Sherlock, to kiss him and feel him hold me. If I had ever doubted it, I doubted it no longer – I was well and truly smitten.

 

\---

 

Sherlock was in a mood. 

He was feeling better, that was obvious. His cough no longer left him breathless and exhausted. And he'd got dressed. But he was in a mood.

"Why are you smiling at me?" Sherlock demanded.

"I'm happy you're feeling better." I said. Sherlock scowled. "You have your microscope out, you're looking at slides..."

"I'm not 'looking at slides,' John. I'm examining the micro fray patterns of threads of different materials."

"Sounds... important."

"All data is important, John. You should know that by now."

"Mm. When you're finished, why don't you come sit with me?"

"I won't be finished for hours."

"Right." I said, feeling irritated. Disappointed. "Of course."

I had the day off work for once. I had almost spoiled it by saddling myself with a hangover, but after a lunch of greasy carbohydrates, rugby on the telly and a kip on the sofa, I was feeling much better.

"It's just..." I ventured. "We were going to..."

"John!" Sherlock snapped, cutting me off. "I'm WORKING!"

Anger surged up from my gut, tasting of bile. 'We were going to talk.' That's what I wanted to say. It was time – it was past time – for Sherlock and I to put paid to the promises exchanged at Wallog. But if Sherlock didn't care to, I certainly wasn't going to force him!

"Right! Off out." I went upstairs for my shoes. It was foolish to go walking with the cracked hip, but exercise cleared my head. I'd missed it the past week. Considering how quickly I'd been overtaken by fury, I needed it right now.

I grabbed my coat from the second floor and started down the stairs.

"John...?" 

I stopped, but didn't turn around – Sherlock was on the landing above me, I could hear him shifting his weight. 

"Your hip." Sherlock said. "You aren't supposed to stress it."

I scoffed and continued down the stairs.

He called my name again, but I didn't stop. I was angry. HE was the one that had started all this. He had claimed that he loved me. Why was he backing away now?!

As I made my way down the block, leaning on my cane, I could feel Sherlock watching me from the window. 

It was 15:30 and the sun was already casting long shadows. It had just turned December, Christmas decorations made shops and homes look cozy, but London was cold and the wind was unrelenting. I hadn't brought my muffler or a hat and I cursed my thoughtlessness.

It had been slushy the night before as I'd limped home from the pub, but today it had all frozen into ice. It took all my concentration to keep my footing. I made my way slowly to the Underground – I had wanted a walk, but the elements had conspired against me.

It was warmer in the station. The Baker Street station connected to five different lines... I could go anywhere quickly, if I had anywhere to go.

A finger of depression touched my heart – a taste of the emptiness that had consumed me after I was invalided home. Once again I was wounded, alone, staring at a Tube map... 

I had done this very thing the day before Mike recognized me. The only engagement I had on that week was seeing the therapist, but I couldn't stand being in the dreary bedsit. My gun in the drawer was a terrible temptation. I'd gone to Hamstead Heath and hiked uphill to look out on London. 

I loved the city fiercely. I'd grown up outside London and it was everything exciting and wonderful. It was alive in ways the rundown suburb of my youth could never be. The army had taken me away, but London was home.

I couldn't go to Hampstead Heath today. Not in the cold and treacherous ice. Not with my hip aching, pain spiking with every step.

Sherlock had saved me then, given my life purpose, excitement. After that first evening together, visiting the pink lady's crime scene, chasing a serial killer across London, my depression evaporated. Sherlock was so ALIVE, so vital!

And he wanted me!

Or he had. I was no longer certain he still felt that way. And that was... depressing. I wanted him now. I hadn't been able to imagine it before – I'd never allowed myself to imagine it. I wanted his skin under my palms, his nipples under my tongue, his neck under my mouth, his body moving beneath mine. I wanted to fall asleep sated, pressed against him, our legs entwined. I wanted to wake up next to him, his face the first thing I saw...

That fucking flu! It had kept us apart too long. I didn't know why Sherlock had changed his mind, and I doubted he would tell me. 

 

\---

 

I went directly up to my room when I returned home, and lay down. I hadn't stopped to see if Sherlock was still peering into his microscope, making notes in his illegible shorthand. Just the thought of his long, elegant fingers sent a thrill to my groin... 

I closed my eyes, a futile attempt to block my regrets.

"John?" Sherlock rapped on my door. "John?"

I sat up. "Yeah?"

Sherlock pushed my door open and stood in the frame. "I, erm, made dinner." He said. "If you're hungry."

I frowned. "You made dinner? What did you make?" I'd seen Sherlock make toast and heat up leftovers, nothing else.

"Frittata." He shrugged. "It's better when it's fresh. I used all the eggs."

"Frittata." Despite myself, I was curious. "Ok." I said. "I'll be down in a minute." I didn't want him to see how gingerly I would have to lift myself off the bed. My hip was throbbing.

Sherlock lingered in the doorway uncertainly.

"I'll be down in a minute." I repeated. 

He nodded and left. I listened to his step, light and confident on the stairs.

"This is delicious!" I told him around a mouthful of frittata. "Why haven't you made this before?"

Sherlock ducked his head. "It never occurred to me."

"What? Cooking? Making dinner?"

"Yes. I never bothered to learn."

"But this...!" I indicated my half-eaten plate. "You obviously had at least one lesson."

Sherlock shrugged. "We had eggs and mushrooms... this was the only recipe I could find that fit the ingredients at hand. I had to borrow an onion from Mrs. Hudson..."

"You followed a recipe?" The frittata was light, fluffy – perfect.

"You-tube video." He said.

I stared. "Why?" I asked. "Why now?"

"I wanted to... you've been taking care of me, John. It's the least I could do..." 

I almost scoffed – the least he could do was what he usually did: nothing. But I caught myself. Another bite of Sherlock's frittata covering my smirk. He noticed – Sherlock always noticed – but I smiled apologetically and he smiled back.

Sherlock's smile was tentative, not the easy smile of my best friend. I reached out to him impulsively, offered my hand. He took it, but his expression became guarded.

It was an expression I recognized, but I was beginning to think I'd misinterpreted it for years. I'd thought it was Sherlock's discomfort with being touched – but knowing now that he was a sexual being, and that he was attracted to me, his guarded look took on new dimensions. I wanted to find out what was under it, banish that careful self-censorship, that fear. Unearth the joy and unabashed wonder of being in love.

I knew how amazing that felt, how revelatory. I wanted it for him. I wanted to be the one to give that to him. I stroked his knuckles with my thumb, tracing across his hand. Sherlock wouldn't meet my eyes, he stared fixedly at our hands, but as I continued to caress him, his guard slowly began to drop.

I saw the deep well of his vulnerability. He hoped. He YEARNED for my love. But he hardly dared to believe it. 

"Sherlock..." I said, eager to reassure him, convince him that what he desired so much was his. "Sherlock –"

There was a sudden knock on the street door, loud and rude. Sherlock coloured and pulled his hand away. I listened to Mrs. Hudson greet Inspector Lestrade, listened to him run up the stairs two at a time. 

Sherlock stood up before Lestrade burst into the flat. "You have something for me?!" He demanded.

"Murder – or maybe suicide. But we can't find the gun."

"Boring."

"He was alone in his flat, all the doors and windows locked and barred."

"Oh! Interesting."

"You'll come?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. John!" Sherlock tossed my coat at me and slipped into his own. I wiped my mouth on my napkin and took hold of my cane. It hurt to stand up, but I ignored the pain and hunted up a scarf before I followed Sherlock and Lestrade down the stairs.

I found Sherlock waiting for me, a cab at the curb. I climbed in, pretending not to notice his concern.

"John..." Sherlock started...

"If it's about my hip, don't. Just... don't."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and sat back. We were silent the rest of the ride. Soon I felt Sherlock's excitement vibrating next to me. He had a case! Maybe a good case. It was endearing. Infectious.

Lestrade escorted us up to the victim's flat. It was in a new building, a high-rise, on the twenty-eighth floor. In the lift, Lestrade handed me a well-used jar of Vick's Vapo-rub.

"The body was discovered because the neighbors complained of the smell." Lestrade explained. "He's been in there at least a month. Probably longer."

I winced in sympathy and smeared a generous dollop of the ointment under my nose. Sherlock waved the jar away. I exchanged a look with Lestrade and shrugged.

As soon as the lift doors opened, the smell hit us like a wall. As I donned a protective coverall over my clothes, I heard the buzzing. The rotting corpse had attracted insects. I prepared myself for the sight.

A stray bluebottle landed on Sherlock's collar. He batted at it absently as he deigned to put the paper booties on over his shoes.

"His name was Luther Jones." Lestrade said. "He worked from home – day trader, I think, something involving the stock market. The neighbors also said he enjoyed gambling – online, card games, the dogs. He'd gamble on anything. But his luck was good – he won more than he lost." 

The door to the flat lay against the wall, the lock removed with a blow torch, the door itself shattered with sledgehammers to get to the metal bars that had been put across the inside. That had not been quick work, I noted. Luther Jones had had serious security in place.

The flat was posh – or it had been before a body decomposed on the sofa – with high ceilings and dark hardwood floors. The sofa faced a window wall, black now with the bright CSI lights pointed at the corpse. The decor was spare, masculine, but it was difficult to get a real sense of it with the dozen or so police and CSI – and all their gear – in the room.

The smell was overwhelming. I was careful not to breathe through my nose – the Vick's hardly put a dent in the odor of human rot. 

Despite its size the flat was close and warm. I felt sweat prickling under my arms.

"Western exposure..." Sherlock muttered, and I realised that the afternoon sun had beat down through the window wall on the body daily. 

I'd never experienced a corpse this degraded. He sat to one side of the sofa, leaning against the arm, his head back. He was black and bloated, his features unrecognizable, and fluids had seeped out of the body into the couch and floor. He wore black trousers and a gray shirt, black shoes and socks. The bullet had entered through his chest and the insect activity was especially dense there and on his face, the flies completely covering his eyes and nostrils giving him a queasy, goggle-eyed look.

An open laptop lay at his feet in the pool of fluids.

"Everybody out." Lestrade called, raising his voice above the buzz of conversation and insects. "Come on." He turned to Sherlock. "You have five minutes."

"You're letting HIM in here?" It was Anderson, of course, swathed in the same protective gear I wore.

Sherlock turned to glare at him, but ruined it by coughing – a deep, grating cough that, at this point in his illness, sounded worse than it was. He muffled it with his handkerchief then wiped his nose.

"Seriously?!" Anderson cried.

"I doubt Mr. Jones will be bothered." Lestrade said dryly. "Out!" Anderson stared daggers at Sherlock as he left the room.

The rest of the police filed out into the hall. One was looking intently at Sherlock. A fan? I thought so until Sherlock glanced his way, did a double take and, his cheeks crimson, turned away abruptly. 

The cop – a strapping south asian bloke with wavy black hair, and a tag that said Officer Vaachaspati – opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and hurried out with his fellows. I watched him go, curious how he knew Sherlock. And how Sherlock knew him – I had no doubt that Sherlock knew the man.

Alone in the flat, Sherlock approached the corpse, keeping his face turned away. I stood back, taking in the room. The window wall must be stunning in the daytime. I went to it and pressed myself against the glass, trying to see the view. I looked out over the city – I could make out the Tate Modern with the Thames beyond, several other high rises amongst the lower, older buildings dense on the ground.

"John." Sherlock had regained his composure. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing. The view." I told him. "This window doesn't open –" I knocked on the glass. "I'll check the others." I left him staring at his reflection in the window wall and made my way through the flat. The rear entrance was through the kitchen, it was locked and barred as the front door must have been, thick metal bands installed across the frame. Several of the windows opened with little cranks to approximately twenty centimeters – far too small for a person to crawl through even if they wouldn't plunge to their death. There were no ledges or platforms on the building.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked when I returned.

"No." He was still by the window but he'd turned and was regarding the body on the couch.

"As a soldier, what does this look like to you?"

I didn't have to think about it – it had struck me the moment I entered the room. "Sniper." I said. 

"But...?"

"The bullet would still have to get in somehow."

"Yes." Sherlock squinted at the corpse. "Do you think you could approximate the angle of penetration?" He asked me.

I looked at him dubiously. The last thing I wanted was to get closer to the rotting, crawling horror on the couch. But when Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an irritated question, I sighed and approached suddenly grateful to be swathed in protective paper and latex.

Holding my breath, I stood at the arm of the sofa where the floor hadn't been soiled with fluids and waved the flying insects away. I gazed at the stiff, blood-darkened shirt as flies swarmed. I sighed again and disturbed a writhing clot of maggots. My gorge rose and I had a sudden image of Sherlock's frittata. I didn't think I'd find it appetizing again. It was just as well – I didn't expect the mood to cook for me would strike Sherlock very often. 

I examined the man's chest, in vain. I could hardly make out where the bullet had entered, let alone the angle. "No, I really can't." I said. "The larvae have had their way with him – you'll have to wait for the autopsy." I cleared my throat as I backed away, leaning on my cane, trying to master my rebellious stomach. "I've never seen so much insect activity in a body indoors."

"No... you wouldn't, would you!" Sherlock said. He took up one of the CSI spotlights and aimed it at the window. He shone it slowly across the glass wall, searching. It wasn't until he got to the upper portion, high above our heads, that he stopped. "There." He said.

I squinted up at the pool of light until I made out the small black dot.

"The insects must have come through the bullet hole." Sherlock said.

"Really? It's a small hole."

"Once he started to decompose, they would have sensed it, come en masse."

"Mm." I glanced at Luther Jones' remains. "Who would go to the trouble? Why?"

"That's the question. We know how – doubtless the sniper set up in that building adjacent – but who and why. I need to know more about Luther Jones." Sherlock studied the laptop. "It appears undamaged." He remarked.

"The sniper could have shot it." I observed. "He didn't."

"No. Maybe it won't be very valuable after all." Sherlock began systematically searching the flat. He touched the painting on the far wall – a large, white and black abstract. He pulled it aside revealing a safe.

"A safe!" 

"Unsurprising considering Jones' other security measures." Sherlock remarked. He put his ear to the metal and twisted the dial.

"You can crack it?" I asked, impressed.

"No." Sherlock said with a self-deprecating smirk. "The Inspector will have to bring back the blow torch. We're done here. Lestrade!"

I stripped off the protective gear in the hallway as Sherlock detailed his findings to the Inspector. Before I was finished, they walked into the lift without me.

"Just great." I muttered. I had to wait for the lift to come back up before I could escape the stench of rotting flesh. I was feeling put out when I emerged into the lobby, wiping the Vick's from under my nose with my handkerchief. Sherlock wasn't in the lobby.

"Greg." I greeted Lestrade. "Where's Sherlock gone?"

"Oh, erm, outside, I think." He was busy, distracted.

I nodded, carefully keeping my irritation private. He left! He hadn't left me behind without a word in ages. I walked out into the cold night alone feeling extremely put out. I'd have to get a cab...

Then I saw him. Sherlock was in the alley behind the high rise with a copper. I started towards them, but stopped – I recognized the cop. He was the South Asian officer that had almost spoken to Sherlock upstairs, Officer Vaachaspati. I remembered how Sherlock had turned away from him...embarrassed...

Sherlock was laughing now. They stood close – too close. They were of a height, so when Vaachaspati leaned in to whisper in Sherlock's ear, it was graceful. Sherlock put his hand on the man's bicep... and rubbed his arm as they talked and laughed. Vaachaspati took the cigarette from his own lips and held it to Sherlock's, his fingers against Sherlock's mouth. He held it until Sherlock had taken a deep drag, then returned it to his own mouth.

I turned away, not wanting to spy on such an intimate moment. Sherlock had slept with this man. Maybe he would again. Their body language certainly suggested he would.

I felt incredibly stupid – how I'd felt after seeing him kiss Victor Trevor. I'd forgotten that... idiotic of me. How had I got everything so wrong?

I started walking away, towards the high street. It would be easier to get a cab there. I hoped it wasn't far, my hip was hurting me. 

I guessed it made a certain amount of sense. Vaachaspati was broad and strong like Victor Trevor, dark skinned and handsome... Sherlock had a 'type,' I guessed. 

What was he doing, confessing feelings for ME? I was nothing like those men. Was it some sort of joke? Or had he meant it at the time, but thought better of it since? 

"John? John!" It was Sherlock, calling out. I turned to see him hurrying towards me. "John? Where are you going?"

"Catch a cab." I said. "You seemed like you'd be occupied with Officer Vaachaspati for the night." I was surprised to hear myself saying it, but gratified by the startled blush on Sherlock's cheeks. He looked decidedly guilty. I started walking again.

"John... you don't understand..."

A cab drove by and I hailed it. Sherlock climbed in after me before I could protest. I gave our address and sat back, looking out the window, my arms folded across my chest.

"John." Sherlock's hand landed on my knee. "It's not what you think."

"It's none of my business." I said, jerking my leg away.

"Let me explain."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"John...!" Sherlock's voice was plaintive, but I didn't answer. What was there to say? He'd told me he'd had lovers – he had a bloody cock piercing, for god's sake! But I still hadn't been prepared for it. Maybe I HAD still thought of him as asexual, innocent. Knowing he'd had lovers and seeing him flirting shamelessly with one were different things.

But now I had seen it and I had to admit, Sherlock and Officer Vaachaspati were a handsome pair. I didn't intend to try and compete – how could I possibly compete?

Finally Sherlock sat back, fidgeting restlessly. "We need to talk, John." He said softly.

"Not. In. A. Cab." There it was: fury. I was furious with Sherlock. He'd led me on, toyed with me! I'd dumped my girlfriend for him! I'd never been with a man, but I was willing, for him. Only for him! And this is what he does!

The cab pulled up outside 221 Baker Street and I struggled out immediately. My hip had stiffened and the first few steps were agonizing. But all I could think of was escape. 

I made it into the front hall before Sherlock caught up to me. He blocked me with his body – damn his height! 

"John..." He searched for the right words. "It's nothing... he – he thinks we're together! You and I."

"So did I." I said, pushing past him. "More fool me!"

Halfway up the stairs I felt Sherlock's hands on my body, insistent, found my back pressed against the wall. He touched my cheek softly, his face close. He had that vulnerable look, the one that had convinced me he was serious before. I wouldn't fall for that again!

He said my name and leaned in further, his lips touching my own...

I shoved him back. "You stink of cigarettes!" I spat. I ran – best I could with the bloody cane – to my room.

I heard Sherlock on the stairs. He stood outside my door for long minutes. But he didn't knock. Eventually he retreated downstairs. I laid tensely on my bed and listened to him pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come!


	3. The Next Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John take a step forward in their investigation and in their personal lives.

SHERLOCK

 

"John! Lestrade wants us." I was shouting up the stairs at his bedroom door and it felt ridiculous. At least I was certain he was up there.

I'd fallen asleep in my chair last night, sometime around 2 a.m. Lorry traffic had woken me early and I took myself to my bed without thinking too hard about what had kept me up. Thus I had woken to the sounds of John making tea in the kitchen at half nine still wearing the trousers and shirt from the night before.

I contemplated what to do – go out there like nothing had happened. Stay in bed. Or go out and ask John what the bloody hell I'd done to make him so angry.

That had seemed like a good option last night. I'd almost done it then – charged into John's room and demanded he explain himself. Or at least listen to my explanation. But even I realised it would be difficult to maintain the moral high ground still smelling of Ravi's cigarette.

Which was still true. I chose option four and took a bath. Where I brooded. John said we were together! John had rejected my kiss. John said I'd made a fool of him.

My thoughts spiraled around and around.

It was a relief when Lestrade texted. 

"John!"

He burst out of his room onto the landing. "What! Why are you yelling!?" 

"Lestrade." I said at a quieter volume. "He wants us. Get your coat." I turned away quickly – I hoped he would follow me, but I wouldn't argue with him if he didn't.

"Give me a minute!" He called. "I have to put my shoes on."

I waited outside, holding a cab. Holding my breath.

John emerged leaning on his cane. He was carrying his coat – he hadn't paused to put it on – and he glowed from the effort of hurrying. His maroon jumper clung to his lean form, the muscles of his cane arm bulging. Desire ignited within me and I felt a little breathless. I wanted to run my hand down his chest, feel the iron under the soft wool.

John mistook my assessing gaze for worry and scowled. I climbed into the cab ahead of him trying to hide my flush of passion.

"Where are we going?" John asked after we'd sat there awkwardly for several minutes.

"Lestrade thinks they found the sniper's nest. There's another body."

"Ugh, I had my fill of maggots yesterday."

I smiled at him, overcome with fondness – then remembered we were rowing... or something. Awkward silence descended again.

This was inconvenient. Moriarty's trial was coming up – I needed John's help. Moriarty was dangerous – too dangerous. He made me feel more alive than any other villain I'd encountered, but his penchant for destruction was worrisome. No, more than worrisome, it could end me. Or worse it could end John. 

That thought made me shiver. I HAD to protect John. To do that, I couldn't have the distraction of our stunted love affair. I had to talk to John, convince him to pretend none of this had ever happened until Moriarty was either in prison or dispatched some other way. Then he could move out or I would, whatever he wanted. I would deal with my heartbreak then.

"We need to talk." I said.

"We do. Yeah."

"Tonight? When we get home? Do you have time?"

"Of course, Sherlock. I'll make time."

"Good. Thank you."

It hurt to give up the hope John had given me at Wallog more than I expected. And there was still a part of me clinging to that hope stubbornly. Sitting next to him, so close that I could smell his soap, see the stubble on his cheek, the way he licked his lips... I wanted him! How could I accept that I'd never kiss that stubbled jaw?

Moriarty. If he even suspected the depth of my feelings for John he would kill him outright. But I feared that if John left now, moved out, Moriarty would punish him for the disloyalty. That death would be infinitely more cruel – Moriarty didn't tolerate disloyalty. I had to keep John close, but keep Moriarty convinced he was nothing but a 'pet'...

The address Lestrade had given took us to a high rise in the same neighborhood as Luther Jones'. But this building was older and more modest – a step or two above a tower block. We were taken to the thirty-fifth floor where Lestrade met us in the corridor. John started donning the protective kit right away.

"We're almost certain this was where our sniper shot from." Lestrade told us. NSY had set up lights in the corridor, but it was obvious that it wasn't normally well-lit. It was spare, dingy and somewhat depressing. We waited there whilst Lestrade shooed his team out of the flat – my heart sank when I saw Ravi was again among them. He winked in my direction and I could feel John tense without turning to look.

The flat was small – an entry hall with a closet, a living/dining room with a galley kitchen at one end, a modest bedroom and full bath. 

I peered out the windows of the main room. I looked across at Jones' building, but the glass was dark – there was some sort of treatment on the window walls granting the residents privacy. The sniper would have had to see through the dark outer layer to have made his shot.

With a latex glove, I opened one of the windows. It pushed out approximately 25 centimeters. This explained the angle of the shot – to avoid breaking a window in this building and attracting attention, he had worked out which flat he could shoot Jones from the small opening.

Despite the evidence of police activity, the flat had an abandoned air. Dust was thick on the window sills and kitchen counter.

John was standing in the doorway to the loo. I looked over his shoulder. The tub was full of white powder that CSI had partially disinterred revealing a body.

"The unlucky resident of this flat." I remarked. 

"Probably." John agreed. "He used quicklime ... did he think it would destroy the body? Why bother?" 

"It's not to destroy the body, it's to prevent decomposition. Which suggests he was here for some time – he took measures to keep the corpse from putrefaction."

"I can't say I blame him for that!" John said. "I mean –"

"Can you tell how long ago she was killed?" I cut him off. I knew what he meant.

John scoffed. "The quicklime will muddy that water." He said. "Not in the past two weeks, but your guess is as good as mine after that."

"It will have been before Mr. Jones was killed." I said. John didn't bother answering so obvious an observation.

I started a systematic search of the flat – in drawers and cupboards, bins, under furniture. There was the slight outline of a body on the bed, as if someone had kipped on top of the duvet, someone about six feet tall. In the living room, the carpet had divots where a chair had been – it had been moved next to the couch. This is where he set up, I thought, examining the window and wall for more evidence. I doubted he would have been careless enough to leave prints, but it was possible. 

The kitchen bin was in a cupboard under the sink. The bin was empty, not even a liner, but underneath it was a scrap of paper. I donned the latex glove to pick it up. It appeared to be part of a receipt of some sort – among the numbers printed along the edge I made out a date: 12/9/14. September. It could belong to the corpse in the tub. Or it could belong to the sniper. Luther Jones certainly could have been rotting for two and a half months. 

I held the scrap to my nose. There was a very faint odor of tobacco. I sniffed again... it was sweet, more like pipe tobacco than cigarettes. 

I photographed the scrap with my phone then replaced it where I had found it. I checked all the cabinets, but found no ashtrays.

I returned to the window the sniper had used to shoot Jones. On my hands and knees, I smelled the carpet. It was there – the scent of tobacco. But this smelled like cigarettes. I'd know it anywhere, cigarette smoke lingered in textiles. I'd had to have my coat cleaned thrice after I quit. 

But what was that sweetness on the receipt? Cologne?

While on my knees, I discovered a bit of dried mud in the carpet. It smelled earthy... and possibly a bit chemical. I put part of it in my own evidence bag then called a CSI over to bag and tag the rest and flag where it had lay. I wanted to discover the properties of this mud. Perhaps it would give us a location.

John had disappeared. I wandered out into the corridor and saw that he'd removed the crime scene gear and was chatting with a pensioner in the doorway of the next flat. I left him to it – he would get more from the woman than I could.

I escorted another CSI to the scrap of receipt and watched her process it and flag the spot it had been found. Then I busied myself telling the techs where they needed to dust for prints – the sniper would have wiped the doors and the area where he set up, but might have forgotten some other surfaces. Then I examined the body in the bathtub. From the angle, it appeared that her neck had been broken. The autopsy would say for certain.

In the corridor again, the neighbor's door was closed and John was nowhere in sight. I asked after Lestrade and was told he was in the lobby. I was alone in the lift for two floors where three children and an adult woman got on. Four floors below that, a decrepit man joined us. The lift stopped for passengers three more times and I ground my teeth in irritation. 

I could see that one pensioner was eyeing me speculatively. She wanted to pump me for information about what the police where doing here. I closed my eyes and waited for the interminable ride to end.

Finally we reached the ground and the other passengers filed out. Free at last I walked into the lobby – and stopped short.

John was talking with Ravi. 'Talking' may have been a euphemism, he was bristling as Ravi spoke and gestured. John was shuffling in the way he did when he was holding himself back from taking someone apart. I approached them quickly, not even pausing to admire the pull of John's trousers across his arse – I could see Ravi had no idea of the danger he was in.

"John..." I said, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I see you've met Ravi."

"Yeah, OFFICER Vaachaspati was just explaining how you met."

Fuck. "I'm not sure I remember." I said, giving Ravi a warning look. "Grindr?"

Ravi smiled broadly. "No it was on the platform at Tottenham Court Road. Remember?"

Of course I remembered, but I wanted him to shut up. Unfortunately, Ravi seemed to be enjoying my discomfort and John's irritation. John grasped my elbow possessively. 

"You had the BEST pickup line I've ever heard." Ravi said. "Our eyes met and you walked over and said 'I can suck your cock better than your boyfriend.' So I took you home. And you did." Ravi winked at me again. "It was a pleasure to meet you Doctor Watson. Sherlock." He nodded at me and strolled away.

John was glaring at me now. 

"It was years ago. Before I met you." I said, conscious of my flaming cheeks. I don't know why I was embarrassed – I'd met a dozen men the same way I'd met Ravi.

"That line works?" John asked me, icily

I shrugged. It was ridiculously easy to pick up men for sex – it didn't matter what I said. I spied Lestrade coming our way. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know – later."

"Yes. You will." He still held my arm, his grip firm and controlling. I shivered with desire, not certain I could escape his hold if I tried.

John held onto me while I briefed Lestrade. "I think it might be a dry cleaning ticket." I told him of the scrap of paper I found. "There might be enough left to track down the cleaner." 

Lestrade looked dubiously at the photo on my phone. "Even if we find the dry cleaners, we'd have to narrow down the customers somehow."

"I think I can help with that." John said. Lestrade and I both turned toward him. "Mrs. Bennet, the next door neighbor, said back in September she saw a man coming out of the flat. He introduced himself as Mrs. Fein's nephew. He told her that Mrs. Fein had taken ill and was in hospital. He had come for some of her things – he had a 'queer looking suitcase.'"

"Did she describe him?"

"Mid-forties, quite tan. Very fit. He was wearing a watch cap pulled down low, but he had blonde eyebrows, so she thought he was blonde."

"I'll get an artist to sit with her." Said Lestrade. "If she'll talk to him. She wouldn't talk to my men." He added in a mutter. "Good work." 

John and I caught a cab home. We were silent, each with our own thoughts. I was going over what I wanted to say, how I would convince John to stay until Moriarty was neutralized.

In our flat, John put the kettle on and got out two mugs. Now we were here, now it was time to talk, it seemed that neither of us were in a hurry to start. John stirred sugar into one of the mugs and handed it to me.

"Thank you, John."

He sipped from his own mug. "So...." He said.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk."

"Yes." I said. "John, I'm worried that Moriarty will be acquitted..."

"Moriarty?! What does he have to do with anything?" I'd caught him off guard.

"I need your help with him – during the trial... and potentially afterwards."

"Of course I'll help, Sherlock. Why are we talking about Moriarty? I thought we were going to talk about us."

Us. How I wished there could be an us! 

"If you're going to move out... or anything like that, I'm asking you to postpone it until after the trial. Please, John."

John stepped back, staring at me. I read his confusion easily.

"Why would I move out?" He asked. "Do you want me to move out?!"

"John..."

"Am I cramping your style, Sherlock?" John's growing anger was palpable. "Is it harder to pick up strangers in the Underground with me around? Did I get in the way of an assignation with Officer Vaachaspati?!" John slammed his mug down on the table, splashing milky tea.

"I'm not going to apologize for my past, John. But that IS the past."

"Are you sure? You seemed awfully friendly with 'Ravi' last night."

"You can't begrudge me that! Not when you go out with your girlfriend three days out of four!"

"I don't have a girlfriend!" John shouted. "I broke up with my girlfriend because of YOU!"

"John, I KNOW you see her. You text with her constantly! You smell like her when you come home. Have the decency to admit it!"

"SHE texts ME, Sherlock. I haven't texted back in two weeks. Since I broke it off, she keeps showing up at work and... why am I explaining – aren't you supposed to just KNOW this!? Been too busy on Grindr to pay attention!?"

"What does Grindr have to do with anything!?"

"You meet men through Grindr."

"YES!" I shouted. "I have! It's convenient!"

"Mm." 

"Don't give me that! You have casual sex as often as you can get it! How many times have you brought a girl home for the night?! Well, I can get it anytime I want it! In the Underground, on the street, through the internet, and, yes, at a crime scene! Men don't need convincing."

I could see John's displeasure radiating off him in waves. "Don't let me stand in your way." He said softly.

"John... just... I need you to help me with Moriarty. Please will you...?"

"Just shut up about Moriarty." John snarled.

"I'm worried –"

"You think you made a mistake, everything you said at Wallog? You don't feel that way any longer?"

"No... John, I'm asking you to set it aside for now. I'm trying to let you off the hook."

"I don't want off the hook." John snapped. "If you'd rather have Grindr, just say so!" 

Why couldn't he understand!? "John..."

"No!" He said.

"John!"

"No! Just stop this now. Stop toying with me! I don't want off the hook!"

"I don't even know what we're on the hook for!" It was out before I could stop it – In a desperate shout. I took a breath. John was staring at me.

"John..." All my frustrations came pouring out. "You said we'd work out the details! But we haven't! I don't know what you expect of me!? I don't know what you want! I know you're straight – you've reminded everyone often enough! Where does that put us?! Do you envision a... an affectional relationship?! Where we have sex on the side?! Or do you think we should give up sex entirely?! Because I don't think I can–"

"Oh for Christ's sake! John interjected. In one swift movement he grabbed my collar with both his hands and pulled me down into a kiss. 

I was so shocked, I flailed for a moment, bumping the table, spilling more tea. My mouth was pressed against his... then his teeth scraped across my lip and passion ignited, erupted within me, I was aflame and I was kissing John. 

He opened my mouth with his tongue assertively. John's kisses were hard, greedy. One hand grasped my neck, the other still clung to my collar. 

I could barely believe this was happening, but I was soaring. I pulled him closer, grabbing at his back and his hips, feeling his sturdiness, his strength as he ravaged my mouth.

I bit his lip and dragged his hips closer. He growled and I felt his cock firming against my thigh. He had a handful of my arse – his hands on my body felt so good!

He kissed my neck, ran his teeth across my jaw and nipped at my ear. It sent shivers through me – directly to my groin. John felt my erection against his hip, he paused. 

Was it too much for him? What did he expect!? I am a MAN!

But I worried for naught – John maneuvered his leg between mine, pressing against my surging prick, rocking his hips and frotting me. 

I moaned aloud and pulled his face to mine and kissed him again and again, pleasure electric on my skin. God, I wanted him! I felt his fingers on my shirt buttons and then his hands were hot on my skin. My nipples were hard under his touch, the right expanding delightfully around the steel barbel. John's fingers didn't falter when they strayed across the metal.

"You too!" I said into his neck. "I want to touch you too!" I pulled his shirt out of his jeans and snaked a hand inside – then I abandoned the venture and cupped his cock through his trousers, squeezing gently. He groaned – I wanted to hear that glorious sound again!

"Bedroom!" John said. "Sherlock, bedroom..."

"Yes!" I was so hard, walking was painful. But John had me by the hand and we ran to my room. There I untangled myself from my shirt, tossed it aside and stepped out of my shoes.

John undid the buttons at his cuffs and collar and pulled jumper, shirt and vest off all at once. 

I'd wanted to touch his chest for so long... now that I was confronted with it, I felt frozen. I was struck with the thought that if I put my hands on John's naked flesh, I would wake from this dream.

But John had no fear. He crushed himself against me, his hands exploring my back and sides. I felt the rasp of his chest hair, the press of his nipples, the rapid beat of his heart. He was mine! John was mine!

I captured his face in my hands and kissed him – kissing him was such a pleasure! Being allowed to kiss John was so amazing...

I wanted him! I unfastened his jeans and pushed them down his hips. His cock sprang free – it was gorgeous! Thick and pink and already emerging from its foreskin, the glans wet and weeping with lust. John's bollocks hung low, but they were tightening up under his shaft in his nest of neatly trimmed curls. Like many gingers, his body hair was even redder than the hair on his head, and it glinted brightly in the light.

(Had he trimmed in anticipation of this? Coupling with ME? The rest of his body was natural – John wasn't much for manscaping... or had he done it for HER? I put her out of my mind. There would be time for that later.)

I wrapped my fingers around his fat, damp prick and John gasped. I pushed him back against my bed and knelt. Before he had a chance to sit up properly, I took him in my mouth. His moan was enchanting. I licked the slick head, tasting him, teasing him, running my tongue down the shaft to kiss his heavy sac, then back up to his glans. I swallowed as much as I could, his girth stretching my mouth. I bobbed until I felt him pressing down my throat, then returned to teasing and licking the sensitive head and jacking his shaft. I cupped his balls and caressed his perineum and bobbed again. 

"Oh jesus...." John moaned. "Fuuuck!" He was sitting on the edge of my bed, legs spread, hands tense on his thighs. I stroked him slowly and looked up into his face. He licked his lips unconsciously and my erection strained against my trousers. I took his hand and kissed it, then placed it on my head, smiling a little. I swallowed him down again, savouring the weight of his hand. He had a fistful of my hair and I let him guide my head.

"Is this ok?" John asked softly, pushing me gently down on his prick. 

I pulled off, still jacking him. "Harder." I said. "It's fine if you're a little rough. It's good." I blushed in spite of myself and returned to my task. 

John guided my head down again, less tentatively. I moaned happily, humming around his cock and his fingers tightened in my hair. I let him lead now, let him use my mouth for his pleasure. He humped his hips forward in little thrusts. It was sublime.

Abruptly, he pulled me off his prick. I looked up at him astonished.

"I'm... I'm going to cum." John groaned. He smiled down at my me, caressing my cheek. "Fair warning, yeah." He said. 

I nodded and returned to my task – still slightly puzzled. I reminded myself that John had only been with women, perhaps they were more fastidious... that made some sense, not having experienced the equipment first-hand. I had no idea how I'd react to pussy... it reinforced my gut instinct that men belonged with men...

John was coming apart – I was taking him apart piece by piece. He still had a hand in my hair, but he was no longer taking charge. I redoubled my efforts, accommodating his little thrusts, sucking on his head, licking his slit and swallowing him down. My throat was raw with the assault, my jaw ached from his girth, but I only forced him down further. I was cupping his sac with one hand and when I ran my fingers along his perineum to the tight little bud of his entrance he cried out and thrust hard in my mouth, arching his back and spasming. I tasted the salt and bitterness of his seed as I swallowed around his fat prick, clinging to his thighs through his shuddering thrusts.

John collapsed onto his back, limp. I swallowed his last emissions before I let him slip from my mouth. I climbed up his body and he extended a shaking arm and pulled me to his chest. He was damp with perspiration, his copper hair glinting in the late afternoon sun. I curled into him and he kissed my forehead, once, twice.

"My god, you're good at that." He said. "I can't remember cumming so hard..." His hand wandered down my back to my arse. "Why do you still have your trousers on?"

"I've been too busy to take them off."

"Do it now."

I sat up – he released me reluctantly – and unfastened my trousers. I pushed them down my hips, leaving my black boxer briefs in place and stepped out of them.

"Pants too, come on." John had propped himself up on his elbows to watch me.

I smiled a little nervously and lifted my waistband out to avoid my erection. I shucked off my pants. My prick stuck out rudely, the thick ring protruded from my urethra and disappeared under the corona of the glans... any other lover would be enthusiastic, aroused, by my piercing. I waited for John's judgement.

"Come back here." John said gently, holding out his hand. He scooted up the bed to lie on it length wise. I stretched out next to him.

"You're so gorgeous." John murmured.

I kissed his chest, touched my lips to the scar on his shoulder. He pulled me up to kiss him properly – John didn't shrink from the taste of himself. He kissed me slowly, still recovering, his hand lingering in my hair. I studied him – I knew he wasn't considered handsome... but John's face had so much character! The planes and lines of an interesting life – of humour and intelligence... experience! John was beautiful! I'd been with so many men – so many of them would be thought more attractive than John – but a pretty face and six-pack abs don't make a man interesting. Quite the opposite, I'd discovered. 

None of them were worth HALF of John! My John.... I couldn't believe I was lying next to him. I couldn't believe he was naked in my bed. I'd wanted him for so long!

John lay limp with post-orgasmic languor. I vaguely regretted sucking him off – he wouldn't be able to fuck me now. Not that I cared over much – John had already far surpassed my every expectation. I could happily take care of myself while he watched. Or even after he left, if he preferred.

But John had other ideas. He shook off his lethargy and kissed me with growing passion. He rolled on top of me, stroking my face and my sides. His weight felt wonderful. I wrapped one of my legs around him and he moaned as he kissed me.

My prick had softened somewhat while we'd rested, but he was at full attention now. John propped himself on one elbow. His hand found my swollen cock and stroked it between us. He thumbed the wet slit, pressing against my Prince Albert in ways that made me gasp and throb, and smeared the fluid down my shaft, lubricating the friction. I thrust into his fist, holding him close with my leg. I was in heat, I needed him! I bit his lip, harder than he liked and he squeezed my cock painfully. I cried out in ecstasy.

"Is that what you want?" John snarled, squeezing me again. "You want it a little rough?" 

"Yes!" I gasped. "Yes!"

John scraped his teeth down my neck. I tried to follow him, but he had a fistful of my hair and held me back. He tongued my nipple – the one without the piercing – then bit into it savagely. I shuddered in pleasure. John lengthened his strokes on my cock to drag over the Prince Albert, pulling at the stainless steel ring, tugging it and my cockhead to and fro with brutal indifference.

"I this what you want?!" John demanded again. 

"Yes!"

"Do you like to be fucked?" John asked, yanking on my cock. "Do you want my cock shoved up your arse?"

"YES!" John chuckled at my vehemence, but his hand never faltered.

He bit my neck and I moaned involuntarily. "I bet you wouldn't mind fucking me either." John whispered. "I bet that big cock ring would hit my prostate just right."

I struggled for coherence – his fist on my cock was just perfect. "Yes... it ...it will!"

I felt him smile against my skin. Then he shifted his weight, bringing one thigh tight against my bollocks. I ground my arse against his leg, then thrust into his hand. Fuck! I wanted him inside me! I dug my heel into his glute, and thrust faster.

"God, you're so gorgeous!" John said, and I believed him. "I love seeing you like this, Sherlock."

When John said my name, I felt my peak becoming inevitable. "Say that again!" I gasped. 

"I love seeing you like this." John's voice was husky with lust. "Sherlock."

The sharp, shocking burst of pleasure overtook me. I came with a cry I barely recognized as my own. John continued to jack me while I came, blasting our chests with thick, white ropes of semen. I lost the plot for a bit as I arched and writhed, bliss jolting through me, wrung from my body by John's capable – oh! So capable! – hand. I could write odes to John's hands!

I hadn't cum in ages – this orgasm was so intense... it left me inert. I registered John's kisses as he lay beside me, but I couldn't return them. I couldn't even protest when he slid away and stood up. But I mourned – it was too soon for him to go! I cursed his post-orgasmic regret.

But John was back before I finished the thought. He had a warm, damp flannel and he wiped my chest clean. He set it aside and pulled back the duvet.

"Let's get under, yeah?" John said. 

I stirred, squirming under the blanket. John climbed in and I was in his arms again, my head on his shoulder. I caressed his chest idly, my fingers combing through his fur. It felt strange and miraculous.

John's breathing evened out, deepening, and I knew he had fallen asleep. Slowly my mind relaxed... there were still corners of tension: Moriarty, of course, and the nagging fear that John would wake thinking he'd made a mistake. It wasn't that I couldn't imagine losing him now, it was that I could imagine it only too well.

It hurt – I was so happy and so completely terrified at the same time... I'd never felt this way with Victor. I'd certainly never cared what the other men I'd been with did. But John... was THIS love? This abject dread of losing him?

I was more uncertain now than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots more fucking to come...


	4. The Evening and The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new relationship starts to find its legs.

JOHN 

"I didn't mean to wake you." I said. I was shaving in front of the bathroom mirror after bathing, a towel around my waist.

"You didn't." Sherlock assured me. I smiled at him in the mirror. He tentatively smiled back and kissed the side of my head. I leaned back against his chest and his arms encircled me. It felt right, if still a bit strange. "I liked hearing you whistling."

Had I been whistling? I must have been. I was filled with joy.

It was only yesterday, our first kiss – that had quickly become our first time together. As intense as that had been, our discussion afterwards had been more so.

"Why are you staring at me?" I'd woken from a very satisfying kip to find Sherlock next to me, leaning on his elbow, smiling.

"I'm not staring, I'm observing." 

I stretched luxuriantly – Sherlock's bed was comfortable and he was an agreeably warm and solid presence in it. "You were watching me sleep."

"I'm a scientist, John. I was making a study."

"Mmm-hmm. Come here." I pulled him down for a kiss. His lips were soft and warm. It was strange to kiss a man, strange to kiss my best friend... but I felt happy. Very happy. "Must have been quite a dull study."

"Not at all – it’s fascinating. I've never observed sleep before."

"Never?"

"I never stayed long after sex. Not after Victor."

Oh. "Am I ... should I go?" I felt awkward. And uncertain.

"John, no!" Sherlock brushed his fingers across my forehead, trying to smooth away my frown. "I want... it's different with you. Stay."

I relaxed and Sherlock looked relieved.

"This isn't casual for me, Sherlock." I said to him. "I don't think it is for you either... but I need you to tell me so." I ran my fingers lightly over his chest, snagging on the warm metal barbel bisecting his nipple.

"I've never been more serious." Now Sherlock's brow was furrowed.

I nodded. "Are you going to see other people?” I attempted nonchalance. “Pick up handsome strangers on the Tottenham Court Road Underground platform."

"No. John, I don't want anyone else. Ever again.” I believed he meant that, at least right now. “Erm... what about you?” He asked. “Will you have... girlfriends?"

"Sherlock, as long as we're together, I won't be with anyone else."

"We're together." Sherlock said. "We're really together."

"Yes." I told him.

He hid his face in my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him... it was a moment before I felt him shaking.

"Hey... are you all right?"

"Yes, of course." He said, but he wouldn't look at me. 

I pushed him onto his back and pinned him. "Don't lie to me." I said gently. I touched his cheek and felt the wet of his tears.

"I..." He looked up at me. "John... we're... truly together?"

I smiled. "Yes." I kissed him softly. "You're MY boyfriend. Officer Vaachaspati best stop looking your way." I said it lightly, but the jealousy felt like panic just below my skin.

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I can't see past you."

"That's... that's shockingly romantic, Sherlock."

"It's your fault. Until I met you, I was pure science."

I snorted and collapsed onto my back.

Sherlock touched my hand and I took his in mine as we lay side by side. I felt giddy with happiness.

"John?" Sherlock said presently. "Did you mean it when you said you wanted to be fucked?"

"Yeah. I'm more of a 'top,' I think, but I've had girlfriends who were into... pegging, I guess you call it. It was... fine. I'd be interested to try it with you."

"I usually prefer to bottom but –"

"Good! That's good." 

Sherlock chuckled at my relief. "I can be versatile." He finished.

"Mmm." I said, feeling interest throbbing in my groin – that was being sabotaged by the increasingly urgent demands of my bladder. “I have to slash.” I said, sitting up. I kissed Sherlock’s hand before I let it go. “Fancy a takeaway? I’m starving.”

We did end up ordering dinner – or rather, I ordered and waited for it while Sherlock spent a sinfully long (even for him) time in the bath. 

When he finally joined me in the living room, Sherlock was scrubbed pink and still slightly damp wearing fresh pyjamas. He found me on the couch where I’d sprawled lazily.

“Sit with me?” I said, happy to see my words erase the uncertainty in his face. He slid down beside me and I snuggled close. Sherlock almost purred with contentment. He kissed my head.

I’d turned on the telly earlier. The news was on and I listened with half an ear. Sherlock began to knead the muscles of my neck and shoulders and I melted under his strong hands.

“This is so strange.” I murmured.

“Strange?” Sherlock asked, barely pausing his ministrations.

“Yeah. I mean, this feels amazing. Thank you.”

“Why strange?”

I sighed. “This is all so different... it’s strange to feel this way about my best friend. Strange and wonderful.” I leaned back into his arms and pulled his face to mine. The kiss was slow, languid. I felt Sherlock’s long fingers caressing my cheek, my hair, my thigh.

“Lie down.” He said. “Let me rub your back.”

I wasn’t going to say no to that! I pulled my t-shirt over my head and stretched out on my stomach. Sherlock straddled my hips and got to work, his large, strong hands massaging all the tension from my muscles.

“Oh... yeah...” I muttered as Sherlock manipulated my trapezius.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” Sherlock said softly. “I tried to imagine what it would feel like to touch you this way.”

I chuckled. “I hope it lives up to the fantasy.”

I couldn’t quite hear Sherlock’s reply, but he continued his ministrations and I was content. I lost track of time, but he continued until the front door bell rang.

“That’ll be dinner.” I said starting to get up.

But Sherlock leaned over and kissed my shoulder, then my neck. “I’ve got it, John.” He said. “Stay here.”

By the time he returned with our curries, I’d put my shirt back on and fetched plates and silverware from the kitchen.

“You want a beer?” I asked Sherlock. “Water?”

“Fizzy water.” He said and I grabbed the bottle of sparkling from the fridge. We sat together on the couch, legs touching from knee to ankle, and started opening takeaway containers.

I was hungry. I’d forgotten that ravenous feeling after really good sex. I hadn’t felt it in so long... I guess the sex I’d been having the past few years was nothing more than adequate. It had been more than just a few years.

For his part, despite having a case on, Sherlock ate without complaint. I wondered if sex stimulated his appetite too. Maybe I’d ask him sometime. Maybe it would simply become apparent.

As we finished our meal, our conversation turned to the case.

“Tomorrow morning I need to go to St. Barts to examine a bit of mud I found today.” Sherlock told me scraping the last bit of mussaman curry from the carton. “I’m hopeful its chemical makeup will yield clues to where our sniper spends his time. I’ve done extensive studies of the dirt in different London neighborhoods, it’s been helpful in a number of cases.” 

I nodded – of course he’d studied London’s dirt. “Do you have any theories about who this sniper is?”

“Yes. He’s a gambler – cards, probably. High stakes. He lost too much and Luther Jones was making trouble for him. Lestrade texted photos of the contents of Jones’ safe. He had several I.O.U.’s for high sums from different people. Our sniper must be one of them.”

“Hm! Has Lestrade brought them in?”

Sherlock sat back pensively. “Jones used a code for their names – and the names of the witnesses. I have a feeling some of the people who owed him were quite powerful and were paying off their debts with favours. Which may have been why our sniper was gambling with Jones in the first place – if he’d won, Jones could call in some favours to benefit our man.”

“But he lost.”

“Yes. Someone as meticulous as our sniper wouldn’t have expected to lose.”

“So... Jones cheated?”

“Perhaps. Or he was just better. Or luckier. Or, most likely, he prevented the sniper from cheating in some way.”

“The sniper was... furious.”

“Yes.”

“And his favour... whatever he was after, he didn’t get it.”

“No. But someone this determined and organized will look for another way. It’s possible that removing Jones wasn’t just revenge, but helped him toward his goal.”

“What is his goal?” I asked.

“When we know that, we’ll know who he is.” Sherlock replied.

“It’s very sexy how you do that.” I said.

Sherlock looked up, surprised. “What did I do?”

I couldn’t help but smile at him fondly. “You frown and steeple your fingers in front of your lips.” God! Those amazing lips! 

“I was just thinking I should go to St Barts now, get started analyzing that mud...”

That was disappointing – I’d hoped we’d have the evening together. I rubbed my calf against his and fondled his thigh. Sherlock’s words trailed off. He looked so sweetly flustered, I almost laughed.

I stood and picked up our plates. “Eat your pudding.” I said, shoving the container of gulab jamon towards him. 

Sherlock’s face lit up, all thought of St. Barts and snipers vanished for the moment. He attacked the plastic lid, prying it off the bowl, revealing the syrupy confection. He smiled as he ate the first forkful. Once again I marveled at his sweet tooth. His enthusiasm for sugar was boundless.

I limped to the kitchen and started washing up. I was beginning to feel self-conscious. If I’d been with a girlfriend – or if Sherlock and I were still just friends – I would know what to do.

I heard Sherlock behind me and glanced around. Sherlock was staring. “What?” I asked.

He was sitting at the table, eating his dessert. He smiled a syrupy smile at me, his eyes clear and blue and beautiful. “Just admiring how well your jeans fit.” He told me.

I felt my face grow hot. I turned back to my task, aware of Sherlock’s eyes on me. I finished rinsing the spoons and set them out to dry before I looked at him again.

He had a queer look on his face, very different from the smile of a moment ago. “I’ve never lived with a ... a lover.” Sherlock said, the word uncertain on his tongue. “I find myself... at a loss. I don’t know how to act. I can’t read you anymore, John. For so long I’ve wanted this... I can hardly trust myself to know what I see.”

I plucked the empty pudding bowl and fork from his hand and dropped a kiss on his brow. “Relax, Sherlock. Trust yourself. Trust ME.”

As I washed out the container, I felt his hands on my hips, his breath on my neck. He kissed my neck and whispered, “John!” in a voice both hopeful and uncertain. I leaned back against him and he stretched his arms around me. Again I marveled at how romantic Sherlock was - this was a side of him I’d never suspected.

I felt him shiver and I knew what he wasn’t saying – that he couldn’t believe this was happening. I reached back over my head and buried my hand in his dark curls, pulling him closer. Sherlock caught his breath, the slightest of sounds, letting me know he was overwhelmed by his emotions.

I turned in his arms to face him. Sherlock’s hands trembling as they slid down my spine. I tilted my head back and he kissed my face. He was strong, his hands large – it was so strange! Until today, all my lovers had been soft and small. I’d been careful with them. Now I realised Sherlock would have to be careful with me... or maybe I didn’t want him to be careful. There was a vast appeal to the hints of raw, rough sex that we’d shared earlier. It was ... strange (that word again)... breaking the habits of a lifetime. But Sherlock’s bruising kisses were intoxicating.

I bit his jaw – less gently than I’d intended – and Sherlock’s arms pinioned me like iron bars. I could escape if I wanted to, I knew several very effective techniques, but I DIDN’T want to. I was high on him, euphoric in our intense embrace. He kissed my neck, my collarbone, my chin, my mouth. Our kisses were kinetic, tongues warring, teeth clashing, his stubble scraping my face raw.

I was breathless with desire, my blood hot and surging. I hid my face on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to catch my breath.

“I have to get used to kissing someone so tall.” I murmured, running my hands up under his shirt. He was lean, but (right now at least) he wasn’t too thin. His chest and back were hairless, I didn’t think he’d bother having it waxed, I assumed it was his natural state. I liked how he felt, so hard and unyielding, no hint of softness. His lack of breasts was... going to take getting used to. But the firm bar of his cock pressing into my hip felt good – and oddly, not strange at all.

My own prick was hard and straining painfully against my jeans – I hadn’t bothered with pants when I’d dressed after our dalliance, and I regretted it now.

Impulsively, I caressed his erection through his trousers, tracing the long, slender length of it. Sherlock moaned and gripped me harder, digging his fingers into my flesh. I nipped his ear and nuzzled his neck. I bit his lips as he kissed me and I grabbed a handful of his hair, with one hand whilst still rubbing his knob with the other. 

God, I wanted him! I was on fire for him! 

“Fuck me?” Sherlock whispered. “John?” 

“Yes.” I said. “Oh yes! In my room.” I kissed him again, squeezing his cock. “In my room.”

I took Sherlock by the hand and pulled him towards the stairs – not even feeling the ache in my hip. At the top, I turned, equal in height for once, and pinned him against the wall. I felt his erection pressing into my thigh and I laughed into our kiss – this was crazy! Me and Sherlock! Lovers! Why had I waited so long?!

In my room, I suddenly felt self-conscious again. I’d brought him up here because I had condoms and lubricant at hand – I wouldn’t have to ask for his or stop and run up here for a rubber. But I’d had so many women up here...

“John...” Sherlock said again, hopeful and uncertain, and my heart swelled with love. I pushed him onto my bed, kissing him, and untied the drawstring on his pyjamas. I could smell his arousal, thick and heady. 

His hands were tugging at my flies and abruptly my cock sprang free from its denim prison. I almost gasped in relief. Sherlock pulled at my t-shirt and I held up my arms so he could shuck it over my head.

I climbed onto his lap, kissing him – as on the stairs, I was again similar in height. I held his head in both my hands and kissed his mouth. I was relieved and delighted that Sherlock liked to kiss, that he was good at it, passionate. There was nothing worse than desultory kisses. I loved kissing. I could lose myself in Sherlock’s kisses.

Sherlock jacked my cock slowly. The pleasure took my breath away, left me gasping. He licked my neck, bit my pulse, then sucked on my flesh, worrying a love bite low on my throat. I thought briefly that I’d have to button up all the way tomorrow to hide it – then his thumb smeared the liquid leaking from my prick across the head and down the shaft and any thought other than Sherlock’s hands and Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock’s body moving under mine left my head completely.

I ripped his t-shirt from his torso and dipped down to tongue his nipples. Sherlock sighed – then whimpered softly as my hand found his cock and caressed it.

We kissed, stroking each other – it felt almost like playing lazily with myself except the shape in my hand was unfamiliar and the mouth on my own was hot and demanding... it was nothing like playing with myself! I laughed out loud, struck by the silliness of my thoughts, the strangeness of being with a man this way...

Sherlock pulled back, my laughter making him uncertain. He didn’t know if I was laughing at him. I wrapped my arms around him and felt him relax.

“You’re so beautiful.” I told him. “I’m happy... I can’t believe how happy.”

Sherlock clung to me for a moment, then he laughed too. We laughed together, holding each other. We fell back on my bed – I was helpless with laughter. I was crying with laughter. It was wonderful laughing with Sherlock! I had resisted this for so long and I could not think of one reason why. I was ridiculous.

I kissed him, my fingers in his hair. I was lying on my bed shirtless with my trousers undone and my cock out, next to my best friend, also shirtless, also displaying his prick. I liked him this way – his long, elegant form sprawled on my bed, pale and pink and perfect, smiling at me. Me! Sherlock burned with desire for me!

I wasn’t laughing now. I stood up and pulled his pyjama pants off. I shimmied out of my jeans and slapped him lightly on the flank.

“Turn over.” I told him. “Hands and knees.”

Sherlock obeyed, flashing an excited grin. I took a second to appreciate his backside as it was presented to me – his elbows on the bed, head dropped down between them and his legs spread lewdly. Sherlock’s body was sleekly muscular and very lean, his arse was narrow, but attractively round and inviting. His skin was ivory, his bollocks dark pink and his entrance was a perfect pink bud.

I traced a faint scar on his lower back and kissed it, thrilling at Sherlock’s shiver. I nipped lightly at the base of his spine. I ached with arousal. I wanted to fuck him right then without ceremony or preparation.

But I knew better. With an effort, I controlled myself. I kissed his buttock, ran my tongue down to his leg and kissed him there. I licked the inside of his thigh, tasting the tender flesh, feeling his muscles firm as he shifted with lustful enthusiasm.

I reached over to my bedside table and opened the drawer. I grabbed the tube of lubricant and the box of condoms and set them close at hand on the bed. Then I pressed my face into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and kissed him there. He smelled of soap and just a hint of musk – the length of his shower suddenly made sense, he had anticipated this.

I was pleased. I got to work, tonguing the knot of muscle at his entrance. He moaned as my tongue penetrated. I fucked him with my tongue, caressing his bollocks and perineum, running my knuckles up the shaft of his rock-hard cock, fingering the metal ring that pierced the head. 

(As doubtful as I was about my potential fellatio abilities, at least I had a bit of experience with rimming! I knew I could please him.)

Sherlock, for his part, pushed back onto my tongue, panting and emitting sweet little moans. Finally he spoke. “More, John. I need more!”

I picked up the lube and with a generous amount pressed my forefinger into him. Sherlock groaned appreciatively. “More.” He said.

I had thought to go more slowly – my experience (and recent research) suggested it would take time to relax and open the passage. But I trusted that Sherlock knew his body. I added a second finger and he moved himself on it. I stroked his cock, giving the ring at the head a little tug and he wiggled happily.

I gave him three fingers and he took it. He felt tight, but he seemed to adjust quickly. I jacked his prick and ran a fingertip over the walnut shaped prostate inside him. He jumped a little and I could see him fisting my blankets.

“Too much?” I asked, kissing his smooth bum.

“No! Jesus, John, give me your cock! Fuck me!”

I almost protested, but stopped myself – Sherlock had had my cock down his throat, he knew exactly how big it was. (Average length, extraordinary width – indeed, the circumference had inches on the length.)

I held him by the hips and rubbed my prick between his cheeks. It was leaking freely, damp and fat in his cleft. I reached around to stroke Sherlock’s erection again and found it firm and dripping. I rolled a condom on myself deftly and with another generous helping of lubricant, I placed the head of my cock against his hole and pushed deliberately.

Sherlock grunted as I breached and swore. “Fuck, John!”

“Too much?” I asked quickly. “Should we stop?”

“No... just... just a minute...”

I gave him a moment to acclimate, running my hands over the pale expanse of his back.

“You’re so sexy.” I murmured. “I want you so much.”

When Sherlock’s breathing evened out and I felt the muscles of his back relax, I pushed in another inch. I stopped there, but Sherlock shoved himself back, impaling himself to the root with a cry. I gasped, my fingers digging into his ribs. He was so tight and hot, my foreskin pushed back and pinned against the throbbing shaft of my prick. I wanted nothing more than to rut and claim, take Sherlock hard, fuck him until I came.

I held myself still with an effort. “Just... just give me a minute.” Sherlock groaned, shifting his hips. “It’s like a tree trunk.”

I shuddered with pleasure at the small movement. “Sherlock... fuck...” I was gripping him so tightly, he would have bruises. I leaned over and kissed his spine, smelling the scent of his skin, tasting the salt of the fine sweat that covered him.

Finally... finally! I felt the muscles in his back unclench. His breathing calmed and his trembling stilled. I ran a hand through the coarse, dark curls gently. “Good?” I asked.

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good.”

Carefully I rocked back and forth – slow and shallow. I froze at Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath.

“Too much?” I asked.

“No! No, it’s good. It’s perfect!”

Perfect! I rocked again, savouring both the sensations and Sherlock’s reactions. He moaned with pleasure and lust and I pulled back farther this time. He began to move against me, fucking himself on my cock, slowly at first, but with increasing vigor. 

“Jesus!” Sherlock swore, shuddering with enjoyment. “Your cock... fuck! It’s so big! It’s all over my prostate... uhnn!”

I was consumed by the intense feelings – of Sherlock’s hole clenched around my prick, the stimulation from sliding in and out, the emotion of being inside my friend, my best friend, the person I loved most in this world. And now I knew him even more intimately. My hands found his shoulders and I fucked him soundly, pulling him back onto my fat cock.

“Fuck me! John... oh! John!” 

The pleasure in his voice! The excitement! I loved him. I LOVED him!

“Wait... wait.” I said, slowing to a leisurely saw that left Sherlock breathless with want. “I need to see you. Turn over.” I pulled out entirely. His hole gaped prettily and I could have cum at the sight. 

Sherlock sat up slowly. His eyes were clear like crystal and wet with emotion. I climbed onto my bed and he smiled and caressed my chest reverently, his fingers trailing down my abdomen. 

“John.” He said. I pulled him close and kissed him – hard. My blood was up, foreplay was over. 

Reorienting us lengthwise on the bed, Sherlock, laughing, let me lower him down onto his back. I kissed him again, joy coursing through me as powerful as my desire. His hands roamed over my biceps, my delts, lingering on the scar the bullet left on my back. Sherlock smirked appreciatively at the flex of my shoulders as I braced myself over him. His hands found my hair and pulled me down to kiss him again and again until I pulled away, giggling a little at his moue of discontent.

I picked up his legs and pushed them up towards his chest – tentatively. I’d done some investigation, some research, into man on man sex and this position (gay missionary) appealed to me immediately. I had never thought much about it, but of course lovers would want to look into each other’s eyes when they made love – at least sometimes.

The position didn’t always appear comfortable for the bottom, so I was careful as I arranged Sherlock’s legs. “Is this ok?” I asked him. 

“Like this.” He said with a knowing smile. He held his legs up for me. “I won’t break.”

“I want you to be comfortable.” I said, jacking his long, slim prick with one hand and brushing an errant curl from his cheek with the other.

Sherlock scoffed and wrapped his long legs around my waist, pinioning me against him. I took advantage of the closeness to tongue his nipple then sink my teeth into the erect bud. He gasped and jerked, his arse bumping my cock, putting me in a frenzy of desire.

I penetrated him again, swiftly this time, almost forcefully. Sherlock moaned aloud and as I moved against him he locked eyes with me and I couldn’t look away. He moaned with every stroke of my cock, panting and gazing up at me. 

Now Sherlock didn’t have to beg me to fuck him harder, I could see it on his face.

A tear trickled from the corner of one blue eye and disappeared into his ear. I leaned over, pushing his hips upward so I could reach, and kissed him. His mouth was hot, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip – he moaned into our kiss and I fucked him harder, pistoning in and out with devastating force. He gripped my shoulders, his prick hard between us.

“John! Oh, John!” Sherlock cried, his entire body straining, shuddering. I felt the hot spray of his ejaculate.

I struggled – edging my own climax – to fuck him through it, to watch his face, see what I had done to him.

Sherlock’s head was thrown back, his eyes unfocused, his breathing harsh. His arse contracted around my cock becoming even more impossibly tight. I teetered on the edge... then Sherlock bit my neck, still shaking and moaning, and I fell into the abyss of orgasm, sharp shocks of pure pleasure wracking my body. Through it all one thought bloomed in my mind: Sherlock! Sherlock! He was mine! I was inside him and he was mine!

I came back to myself slowly. We were lying in an untidy heap on my bed, sticky and damp. I pulled out carefully – Sherlock hissed quietly – and rolled off his chest. I took off the condom and tied it off. I forced myself out of bed and threw the thing away, then looked around for a suitable cum rag.

Sherlock hadn’t moved, but his eyes followed me. I leaned over and kissed him. 

“I’m going downstairs for a flannel.” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Mm.” Sherlock attempted to rouse himself. “I could use a bit of a wash...” I kissed him again.

“I’ll bring you a flannel.” I said and he collapsed bonelessly on my bed. 

I was back as quickly as I could manage – the temporary reprieve from hip pain was over – and wiped his abdomen clean. I climbed in next to him and pulled the blankets over us. Sherlock sighed happily, his head on my chest, his arm around me, our legs entangled.

Before I fell asleep, I realised this didn’t feel strange at all. It felt right.

—

I woke early the next morning with a profound sense of well-being.

I had thrown off the blankets as I slept, Sherlock’s body pressed against my side making their warmth superfluous. I watched his slow, even breathing for a few minutes, then eased myself out of bed carefully – I didn’t want to wake him, he got little enough sleep.

But he was up by the time I’d washed and begun shaving – my unconscious whistling had roused him. I wasn’t unhappy to see him, his hands on my hips, his chest against my back, his mouth on my neck...

“Let’s don’t start something I can’t finish.” I said, doing nothing to stop him. “I have work today. So do you, if I’m not mistaken.”

The love bite Sherlock had worried on my neck stood out a lurid red. His graceful fingers danced across it briefly and I saw him smirking in the mirror. He liked that he had marked me.

I liked it too. 

I kissed him, hard and deep, smearing shaving lotion on his chin. His nipple hardened under my touch. For a second, I fully intended to bend Sherlock over the sink and fuck him... fuck him raw and hard using whatever was at hand (soap, shampoo...)for lube.

I thought better of it. I was 41, not 21. I was too responsible to fuck anyone without a condom. I respected him – all partners – too much to use them so selfishly. And I knew if I went upstairs for a condom, I’d be distracted by the time and having to get ready for work. No, some morning I’d fuck Sherlock over the bog sink – after work I would supply the medicine cabinet with lube and rubbers – but not today.

Sherlock, though, must have read my entire thought process on my face – I swear the man was almost a mind reader when he wanted to be! He looked disappointed for half a second, then sly as he pushed my bum against the sink and knelt, pulling my towel off in the process. 

My cock had been interested before, now it sprang fully to life, red and rude and very ready. Sherlock did not hesitate...

Afterwards I kissed him tenderly. He’d cum on the floor and the towel he’d grabbed to cushion his knees, stroking himself as he sucked me, cumming as I came in his throat. His shivers of pleasure had only heightened my own – I’d been with women who enjoyed sucking cock, but none who’d enjoyed it to the point of orgasm. It was quite the ego boost, to be sure.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him. “We have eggs – I was thinking of doing a real fry-up.”

Sherlock smiled. “Just toast for me.” He said. I nodded, knowing he’d thoughtlessly eat as much as I let him off my plate.

I took his dressing gown and left him to wash. I made tea and sipped it as I cooked up eggs, potatoes and mushrooms. I opened a tin of beans and heated them, sliced a tomato and even discovered a sausage in the depth of the freezer and cooked the freezer burn off it in the frying pan.

Sherlock joined me in the living room as I turned on the news, jammy toast and mug of tea on the coffee table for him next to my fried breakfast. True to form, Sherlock speared a spoonful of egg and beans off my plate immediately.

I sat down – I was wrapped in his dressing gown (and nothing else) and it occurred to me that if Mrs. Hudson came in right now, the jig would be up.

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, flopping down next to me and starting to spoon sugar into his tea.

I wrapped an arm around his waist and he nestled into my shoulder. “Just realized how many ‘I told you so’s’ I’m going to be hearing.” I said. “When people find out we’re together.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice had changed – it was formal. Cold. My hand froze with a forkful of egg halfway to my mouth. He had my attention. “We can’t let anyone know. We have to act like we always have in front of other people.” He shifted restlessly. “In fact, I should close the shades. Anybody could see in.” To my amazement, Sherlock stood up and did just that.

“Why?” I asked. I set down my fork. “You’re hardly closeted.... or ARE you? Is it so important that people think you’re asexual?” I was confused and surprised.

“No, of course not.”

“Then what?” I found myself on my feet, leaning heavily on my cane, the ease and relaxation I’d been feeling post-orgasm draining away. “Are you... embarrassed?” A knot had formed in the pit of my stomach. Sherlock was vain, I’d known he was vain almost from the start. He didn’t want anyone to know he was with the short, funny-looking guy...

“John!” Sherlock grabbed my shoulders, shaking me in the process. “You’re being stupid. I would love nothing more than to tell everyone – I’d shout it from the rooftops! I hardly believe it myself – that you want me – John, I’m so happy and... proud...”

I believed him, I did. I tried to swallow the anger that had begun to simmer in my gut. “So why aren’t we shouting about it?” 

“Moriarty.” Sherlock said. 

I scoffed. “Moriarty again! He’s your excuse for everything.”

“It’s not an excuse! I’m... afraid of him. I’m afraid of what he wants to do.”

“Sherlock, he’s going to prison!”

“I don’t think he is! All this –“ Sherlock gestured widely. “The ridiculously public crimes, the trial, it’s theater. Don’t you see, John? He’s called me out: ‘Get Sherlock.’ That’s what he intends to do, ‘get’ me. I don’t know how, but I feel certain Moriarty doesn’t plan on going to prison.”

“All right.” I said. “But what does that have to do with US, Sherlock.”

He turned to me with utter dread on his face. “Moriarty... Moriarty is obsessed with me. If he knew – if he even suspected – how much I love you, he would kill you. John, I can’t let that happen.”

“You don’t know...”

“I do! John, I know! I’ve thought about this – ANY change in our relationship is dangerous for you. I thought about leaving...or sending you away –“

“You what!?”

“– but if Moriarty thinks you’ve been disloyal to me, he’d punish you. He hates disloyalty. John, trust me on this.”

“You’ve thought about leaving?!” I spoke softly, but I was fighting to hold back the warring panic and anger inside me.

“Only to make you safe.” 

“Don’t you think I can make that decision for myself?!” I snapped.

“Of course, but you don’t have all the information.” Sherlock touched my shoulder again. “John.” He said, his tone conciliatory.

I shrugged him off with an angry jerk. “Why tell me that you love me, then?! If you’re planning on leaving, Sherlock?”

“I’m NOT planning to leave. And I never intended to tell you. I never thought...the last thing I expected was for you to want this... me.”

It was true, Sherlock hadn’t meant to tell me. And if I were honest, I was as surprised as he to discover how much I wanted to be with him. I turned back. His eyes pleaded with me. 

“John, Moriarty is dangerous. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. I would do anything to keep you safe.”

“Promise me, Sherlock, promise me that IF Moriarty is somehow set free, we will deal with him together.”

“Yes.”

“Promise me, Sherlock, you won’t leave me behind.”

“John...”

“No, if it comes to leaving, WE will decide together. You don’t just leave!”

“I won’t, John.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” Sherlock stepped close to me and this time I didn’t back away. His large, elegant hands cupped my face and he leaned down to kiss me. “I promise.” He repeated between kisses.

I felt limp with relief. I let Sherlock hold me – hold me upright as much as anything. My hunger had fled, the thought of my fried breakfast turned my stomach. 

“I... I have to get ready for work.” I said, not moving at all, staying warm and safe in his arms with my head on his shoulder.

“Yes.” He said, his arms still tight around me. His scent, clean and strong, filled my senses. “John?” 

“Yes?” I said, expecting to hear him say ‘I love you.’

“Should we get tested together?” Sherlock asked softly. “There’s a clinic in West Ealing. If we’re both clean... maybe we could dispense with the condoms?”

I shifted my weight to look into his eyes. They were bright gray this morning, with great black centers. Despite the hint of nonchalance in his voice, I could see he was apprehensive.

“Wouldn’t going to an STD clinic for testing be a giveaway? To Moriarty’s people?” I asked. I was still angry, I realised, needling him when all I wanted was to agree.

“I’ll go in disguise.” Sherlock said, completely serious. “If they’re watching us that closely, I’ll lose them first.”

“If they’re watching us that closely, they saw us through the windows yesterday. They already know.”

Sherlock’s irises expanded until his eyes were dead black and full of dread. “I know.” He said. 

“Do you regret...?” I started.

“No! John, no. But we must be more careful from now on.”

His utter sincerity deflated the remnants of anger inside me and I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his beloved face. “We will be.” I said. “What time should we meet at the clinic?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Sherlock learns how to be in a relationship.


	5. I Cherish Every Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a terrible fight.

SHERLOCK 

The early morning traffic woke me – it was light out, but dawn came early this time of year. John slept beside me and I took a moment to marvel at that. We’d slept together every night for the last three months, two weeks and four days – he’d all but moved into my bedroom – but I never wanted to forget how amazing it was. I had never expected to have this, have him. I never expected to have this happiness in my life.

And it had almost not happened at all.

I still couldn’t bring myself to believe that John wouldn’t tire of me. Or decide that he couldn’t be with a man after all. Daily, John erased my fears – with his smile, with kisses. With the way he held me and the way he looked at me. The way he made love...

We had settled into what I can only describe as ‘domestic bliss.’ It looked very much like our friendship had before we became lovers – John left me alone when I was thinking or working on an experiment, he was always game for adventure and accompanied me on cases, he was invaluable in discussing the cases, often leading me to deductions I would not have made on my own. He has been, as always, my bringer of light.

In public, we were careful to act as if we were just friends. It was more difficult than I had imagined – I shouldn’t look at him too much, but I shouldn’t avoid looking at him either. I had to stop myself from grinning foolishly, stop myself from inhaling the scent of his hair, from leaning close and pressing my lips against his neck... John was better at it than I. He would look into my besotted smile with a profound blandness that sobered me quickly.

I stopped myself, more than once, from blurting it all out to Lestrade. “John loves me and we’re together now!” sat at the tip of my tongue aching for release. I swallowed it.

But at home, when we were alone, John would touch my shoulder or my hair when he walked by. He would kiss me chastely, his warm lips pressed against mine, when he got home – or even if he had been out of the room. When I spoke to him, John would look up from whatever he’d been doing and smile warmly, his eyes crinkling in a way I’d never seen before. He was ... vulnerable... with me in such... precious ways. I was vulnerable with him too... no, I was honest with him now.

I’d always been vulnerable with John. I’d hidden it, masked it behind scorn and arrogance, but it had always been there for John. Now...now I didn’t have to hide.

“You’re in a good mood today.” John had observed one afternoon. “Again.” He had appeared behind me, laid his hand on my shoulder and leaned down to kiss me. 

“Shouldn’t I be?” I asked, pulling him in for another kiss.

“It’s just... unprecedented. If I’d known regular sex would make you THIS easy to live with...”

“Ha!” I swept him awkwardly into my lap – John laughed and caressed my cheek. “It’s not the sex.” I said, staring into his hazel-gray eyes. “Well, it’s not JUST the sex.”

“What is it then?”

“I... I don’t have to... pretend... that I’m not in love with you anymore.” I kissed him again, more deeply, one hand in his coarse, cropped hair (I could almost feel the texture of the silver strands amongst the ginger), the other around him, holding him close. “God, I love you, John Watson!” He kissed me this time. “I love you beyond reason... I still can’t believe...”

“I love you too.” John whispered, smiling into his kisses. 

I was overcome – with emotion. With lust. I could not get enough of his strong, sturdy body. I loved everything about it, from the callouses on his toes to the cowlick on his crown.... I loved the hair on his arse, the flex of his calve muscles, the ginger trail that led to his full, flaming red bush around his fat cock, the musky scent of his arousal, the sweet softness over his iron-like abdomen, the scars on his bad shoulder, the expressive lines on his wonderful face...

I treasured every bit of John every day. I dared not become complacent – already I had almost lost him.

John had always been incredibly patient with me, forgiving of my rudenesses, only challenging me when it mattered. I listened to him not only because I loved him, but because I trusted him. Who else had I ever trusted so much?

I LISTENED to him – I didn’t simply observe and deduce as I did with other people. When had I started listening to John? It was that first night, even before he killed to save my life, when Lestrade was leading a drugs raid in our flat... I admitted to John that I used (the look on his face!), and when I didn’t understand why the dead woman would be upset about a child lost seven years earlier... John didn’t judge me. He didn’t dismiss me or mock me. He helped me. He’s never stopped helping me. 

I’ve come to depend on his help. That’s one reason the thought of losing him worries me so much. Why Moriarty worries me. 

I’ve largely kept those worries from John. After impressing upon him the importance of keeping our relationship a secret, I did not mention Moriarty again. But his trial is coming up... I’ll have to solve that problem – Moriarty’s final problem – soon.

But I was talking about John... though his patience and decency have always been impressive, he has a temper. 

I don’t recall ever arguing with Victor, and I had no reason to have a disagreement with a trick, or any reason to bother if I did. I was not used to CARING about the person I argued with – I’d never been invested in the other person’s point of view.

It was all new to me. I undertook to study it, to catalog the different sorts of quarrels we might have, how John reacted, how it made me feel.

The mildest type was characterized by slight irritation. John might say, “Stop fussing over me.” – but he said it fondly. I knew he liked the attention, it just embarrassed him.

Somewhat less mild, but still not troubling was when John said quite tersely to “Stop fussing!” He knew I worried about his hip – and more fundamentally, his safety from the criminal element I attracted. But he had little patience for my worries. When he was terse, I let him be no matter my concerns. At least I had thus far.

But those sorts of disagreements were nothing. We’d had one terrible fight that had convinced me that John was done with ‘us’ for good.

We’d been in the street – it was a Tuesday and we’d shared a leisurely brunch at a restaurant I favoured. John wasn’t working at the clinic any longer and more importantly, he’d finally been able to stop using the cane. As we strolled back towards Baker Street, a woman passed us... and John LOOKED. He looked at her like he looked at every woman he found attractive, staring at the sway of her breasts and her hips, licking his lips and watching the wind catch her long hair. 

John had never looked at me that way.

She stumbled and John, lightning fast, caught her, one hand on her elbow, the other her waist.

“Easy there.” He said. “Are you ok?” His hands didn’t linger, his eyes did.

She smiled at him. “Yeah, cheers.” She straightened her skirt briskly and walked on. 

With a last glance at her arse, John rejoined me, a bemused smile on his lips.

I wanted to slap that smile off his face.

I felt ill, brunch heavy in my gut. It was suddenly perfectly clear: John would leave me, perhaps not today, but soon...

“What’s up?” John asked when we had gotten to our flat. “You’re out of sorts – everything ok?” He laid his hand on the back of my neck lightly – he did that sometimes, a gesture of affection that reminded me of when he pulled me into a kiss. It was supposed to, I guessed.

Usually my heart melted when John did that, and I could deny him nothing. But that day I was furious with him. I just hadn’t realised it yet. I only knew I was sick with the painful anxiety of impending loss. 

I couldn’t bear the feeling of John’s fingers gently gripping my nape so intimately. I yanked away from his hand, turning from him.

“Sherlock?” John sounded surprised and I hated him for it. “Are you mad at me?”

I scoffed. He HAD to know why I was hurt.

“What did I do?” John asked, taking hold of my arm in a way that I was sure was meant to placate, but only enraged me further. 

I rounded on him, tearing my arm from his grip. “Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

“I don’t know... Sherlock?” There was still astonishment in his voice, but also a warning – John’s temper was rising.

I felt a thrill of perverse happiness at that – if I had to feel this bloody, John should too.

“That woman! On the street!”

“What woman?” John was confused now.

“The woman with the low cut blouse that you couldn’t stop staring at! The woman that tripped.”

He looked at me in disbelief. “What about her?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, you had to pick your tongue up off the sidewalk.”

“You’re kidding. Sherlock, tell me this is a joke.” John was angry. “After I sit and watch you flirt with ‘Todd’ all through brunch, you are NOT upset that I glanced at a pretty bird.”

“It wasn’t a glance – it was 28 seconds! Which is a long time!” John’s accusation penetrated along with a finger of guilt. “Who’s Todd?” I dissembled.

“Oh please! Todd. Our waiter. The reason you ALWAYS want to go to that fucking café! Todd who waits ‘til I’m in the gents to touch your shoulder and tell you what a big fan he is! If you want to screw around again, Sherlock, all you have to do is say so. You won’t have to worry about me getting in your way!”

“Is that what you want!?” I shouted. “For ME to be the bad guy? For me to break it off!? That be more convenient for you, John, than admitting you made a mistake!? That you’d rather follow around after any – every! – halfway fit tart with your tongue hanging out than be with me?! Want me to call Mariah for you!? Let her know you’re available!?”

“You’re insane!” John said. “She tripped. I was supposed to let her fall?!” He made an effort to reign in his temper. “Look, I find women attractive. You know that. It’s not something I can turn off because we’re together. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m supposed to just ignore it, then?” I said. "Just pretend you aren’t panting and drooling over a pair of big tits!? Pretend everything is fine?!”

“Everything IS fine!” John shouted. “Everything except bloody Todd sucking your cock while I’m eating breakfast!”

“SOMEONE should suck my cock, don’t you think!?”

John turned red – and I believe he saw red too. I knew the jibe would hit, but not that it would hit him so hard.

John had been a reluctant cocksucker. He’d only tried twice and despite taking out my piercing for him, he was tentative. He tried – he did really try – but he was daunted by his gag reflex. No one LIKES to choke and feel the tears stream from their eyes, it’s just something one had to accept when one loved cock. John hadn’t accepted it – he might love me, but he didn’t lust after the male member. I had avoided the subject for fear it would alienate him, hasten the inevitable end of our affair.

But now, in one sentence, I had accused him, tried him and found him wanting. 

His eyes burned with barely suppressed violence. For a second I felt the danger. John was highly trained in hand-to-hand combat, he could easily hurt me quite badly – and right then, he wanted to hurt me. His fists were clenched, his jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body was clenched. It was difficult not to cower, but I stood my ground, fury making me foolish, and waited for John to strike.

But he didn’t. John did something that felt much, much worse. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. His footfalls on the stairs slightly lopsided, betraying John’s aching hip as he left our home. I heard the street door fall shut and John was gone.

Gone. 

I could barely breathe. Anger kept me from running after him, but I wanted to. I wanted to follow him, see for myself where he went.

I should have. My imagination supplied no end possibilities, each less palatable than the last. 

John might go to his gym. I hadn’t known John even belonged to a gym until after we were together. (Or if I’d known, I’d deleted it.) He could take his anger out on barbells and treadmills... I’d gone with him once, out of curiosity, and was appalled to discover how much cruising went on in the men’s locker rooms. John didn’t seem to notice, but a number of men certainly noticed him! I asked him later if he’d ever indulged in a bit of spontaneous sex in the showers and he looked at me with such surprise. “Of course not.” He’d said, and I believed him. Perhaps now he’d go for it...

Or he could go to a pub to get pissed. He’d stumble home late, belligerent and incoherent – if he even talked to me. More likely he’d go directly to his room and I wouldn’t see him until tomorrow when he emerged rumpled and hungover. Unless he pulled. Then I’d be forced to listen to his ‘walk of shame’ up the stairs in the morning. I’d leave for a while, let him shower her off of his skin before I tried to find out if he wanted me to forgive him...

Or it was possible that John had headed directly to Mariah’s flat to rekindle their passion. He still got the odd text from her...

Maybe he wouldn't come home at all.

I tried to put these thoughts out of my mind. I hadn’t made progress on the sniper case in weeks, I should focus on that... but my Mind Palace sat on a far hill that try as I might, I could not reach. I turned to my violin... though I played until my fingers ached, I couldn’t put the quarrel aside. I dwelled on it, perseverated, even as I drew bow across strings.

I went over and over the fight, self-righteously at first, the sting of John’s transgression fresh and my anger high. Slowly I began to see John’s side of things, grudgingly admitting to myself that I MIGHT have overreacted. The more I considered, the more embarrassed I became of my own behavior. I cringed at the memory of my accusations. I marveled at how patient John had been, how he’d tried to defuse the argument – until my needling had brought out his temper. And even then, he removed himself from the situation rather than lose control.

I didn’t deserve him!

Thusly I tortured myself. Perhaps if I’d had more experience with love relationships, I wouldn’t have assumed all was lost. Perhaps if John had some history of being with men, I wouldn’t have felt so insecure. But as it was, I spent the afternoon in hell.

It was growing dark and I was on the verge of contacting Mycroft to demand that he locate John via CCTV when I heard the front door. It was John’s tread on the stair – even as I sighed with relief and lay my violin in its case, I girded myself for the final blow. I would have my dignity, I resolved, if nothing else.

At the first sight of John’s sweet face, I broke down. “I’m so sorry, John!” I cried. “I was such an idiot!”

I felt his strong, square hands on my arms, on my back, as John held me. “No.” He murmured into my neck. “No, it was my fault. I was being a wanker...”

Then his mouth found mind and I lost myself in his kisses. We tore at each other’s clothes in a frenzy of passion – I NEEDED to touch his skin, feel his body against my own, his breath hot against my neck, have him inside me.

It was frantic, our lovemaking, and more than a little rough. I was sore all over for days after – and I left bruises and marks on John’s flesh that shocked me later.

But in the moment, I had to assert my ownership, my status as John’s partner – even if it were the last time. I had marked him the first day we made love, marked him as my own, but I had restrained myself since. This time, as he fucked me, I dug my fingers into his arms, his hips, his shoulders, his ribs – anywhere, everywhere, I could reach. 

John didn’t complain, not even when I pinched his nipples or bit into his shoulders and neck. He was as caught up as I was, pinning me down and forcing my legs up into my chest. He pounded my hole with merciless enthusiasm, drilling me into the mattress with his fat cock. I relished every second. I needed it.

I needed to feel in my body how much he wanted me – I believed he loved me, why else had he extended our friendship into the physical? John wasn’t selfish or capricious, not in that way. He HAD to want me for our affair to continue. 

John barely had applied lube before I demanded his cock. He obliged – it hurt, but I didn’t care. I FELT it. I felt his desire. He fucked me almost viciously, saying my name over and over. I came without touching my prick, the stimulation of my prostate, the friction of his body against my erection, the look in his burning eyes... I came hard, the jolts as painful as they were pleasurable.

We clung to each other afterwards. John kissed me, less desperately than before, but still fiercely. I held him tight against my chest and whispered into his hair. 

“Is it over?” I asked John. “Have we broken up?”

“No, of course not.” He said. “Why would you think that?”

Relief made me weak, my arms and legs losing all strength. I was blinded by a sudden rush of tears.

“It was awful.” I told him. “I’ve never felt that way... I was so angry. I wanted to hurt you... why would I want that? John? I’ve never wanted you to be hurt! I want to protect you!”

“Couples fight sometimes, Sherlock. All couples.”

“I don’t want to!”

John was silent for a moment. “I don’t like fighting with you either.” He said softly. “We need to learn to talk to each other... instead of bottling things up until they explode. And we have to listen.” 

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at me. His ginger hair was tousled and his eyes were sleepy, he was still damp from our exertions and there was cum in the fur on his chest. My cum. I couldn’t help but smile at him.

“I’ll start.” John said. “I didn’t look at her – that woman – purposely. The last thing I ever want to do is upset you – I’ll be more cognizant... more sensitive... from now on.”

I nodded, accepting his apology. “I knew Todd irritated you.” I confessed. “It was stupid, but I wanted you to be jealous.”

“Why?” John asked. 

“I guess, I thought if you were jealous, I’d feel more secure. John...”

“How have I made you feel insecure?” John asked gently.

I lay back at a loss. “It’s... it’s everything. You love women – you desire women. I don’t even know what you’re doing in my bed.”

John hid his smile by kissing my chest. “You know what I’ve been doing in your bed.” 

“It’s not funny.” I protested. “John, you’ve never been with a man. Not once. Not in the army, not when you were a kid... what am I supposed to think.”

“You’d feel better if I slept with some other men?” He was still laughing at me.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Look, Sherlock... all I know is that I have fallen in love with the most amazing person. And I want to be with him.” He pressed another kiss to my chest. “About the other thing... I ...”

“It doesn’t matter.” I assured him, caressing his hair.

“Bullshit.” John replied. “Of course it matters.” He swallowed nervously. “I...know I’m terrible at it, Sherlock, but if you can put up with crap blowjobs for a while, I’ll get better.”

“John...”

“No, I want to do it. I want to please you.” John’s hand wandered down my thigh and I sighed with fruitless arousal. 

I stilled his hand and drew him against me. “Later.” I murmured, kissing him.

John lay still, his arms around me. “Cocksucking IS the one thing completely new to me. You know, usually I like a challenge... I let myself be daunted... intimidated... it’s ridiculous, really.” John smiled coyly. “If you’re willing... I can practice everyday.”

I felt a deep-seated lust – it didn’t extend to my prick, it was way too soon. But the image of John kneeling at my feet PRACTICING his cocksucking ... I shuddered in purely intellectual orgasmic delight. 

“Yes.” I managed. “I think I can oblige.”

We hadn’t fought again, not like that. John told me about couples who fought all the time, becoming addicted to the adrenaline of the argument and the intensity of the sex. And he told me about quarrels that had ended relationships... 

I had listened to John for ages... or so I thought. Listening isn’t something I’m accustomed to – not the way John meant it now. I observe and deduce... which glides over feelings and opinions and lands on facts. But facts have context. And context can be everything.

So as John practiced blowing me, I practiced listening to him – listening to his emotions and desires. What I heard largely assuaged my insecurities. John loved me. He truly loved me! It might not last forever – what does? But right now John wanted ME.

I still fear the waning of his love, his realization that he wants to be with a woman... but as I gaze at him, sleeping by my side in the bright light of morning, I know that won’t happen today.

Something else happens today, something I’m equally as fearful of: Moriarty’s trial. I’m to be called as a witness, John will sit in the gallery and monitor the entire affair. It’s the beginning of a new chapter... and an end to this one.

Mycroft... I’ve met several times with Mycroft about the Moriarty problem. I don’t like his predictions about where this chapter will lead, but he’s rarely wrong about these sorts of things. We have been preparing.

Whatever happens, these three months, two weeks and four days with John Watson have been the best of my life. I will cherish every moment we have left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can this happiness last?


	6. The Reichenbach Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has regrets.

JOHN 

When I think back about that time – and I do think about it relentlessly, trying to pinpoint what I missed, what I should have done differently – when I think back, the day Moriarty was acquitted is the first thing that comes to mind.

I rushed home from court, but somehow, improbably, Moriarty had beat me there. 

“Sherlock?!” He was sitting very still in my chair. I recognized the posture, the distant look in his eyes, Sherlock was deep in thought, deep in his Mind Palace.

My cry roused him and he looked up at me with such sadness and longing it took my breath away. Then he blinked and the sadness was gone. Hidden.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him. “What happened?” I took in the teapot and cups. “Who was here?”

Sherlock’s lips curved in a small smile – I was enchanted by his pretty mouth and leaned down to kiss him. Sherlock savoured the kiss, holding my face in his hands.

“Tell me.” I said when he released me.

“Jim.” Sherlock said. “Jim Moriarty stopped by.”

I blanched, remembering the claustrophobic press of the explosives strapped to my chest. “What did he want?” I asked. “What did he say?”

“He said...” Sherlock looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sherlock, don’t shut me out.”

“He wants to ... to burn the heart out of me. John, YOU are my heart.” He looked back at me and I saw his fear. “He cannot know that! I won’t let him hurt you!”

“Hey.” I said, putting my arms around him, trying to comfort him. “We’ll stop him. We’re in this together, remember.”

“Yeah.” He said unconvincingly.

“Sherlock, you promised me.” I said. “You can’t do this by yourself. He’s too dangerous. I have your back. You have mine.”

“Yes, of course you’re right.” Sherlock said. “Come here.” He leaned into my embrace and pulled me close. He kissed me, opening my mouth with his tongue. His sudden passion surprised me, but delighted me as well. “I need you right now.” He told me.

I smiled into our kiss. “We missed my practice session this morning.” I said, starting to unbuckle his belt. I would never be the best cocksucker in the world, but I’d learned how to please him. I could make him come with my mouth alone now.

“No.” Sherlock breathed. “I want you inside me. I need you, John.”

We’d fucked in the living room before – we’d fucked in every room on just about every surface in the past few months – but I could tell he wanted something more romantic right then. I took him to our bedroom and laid him out on our bed and looked into his eyes as I made love to him.

It wasn’t a playful, lingering fuck as we were wont to do, he didn’t ride my cock, all hot and horny, or bend over the bed and wiggle his perfect arse. He didn’t joke about fucking me again – an experiment that hadn’t gone wrong, exactly, but hadn’t been quite right either. He was somber and intense, even a bit tearful as I brought him to orgasm with all the skill I could muster. 

Should I have known, tied together so intimately, loving him so much, that he had lied to me? Should I have seen the depth of his sadness and fear and what it would drive him to do?

I SHOULD have known that he would do anything to spare me from Moriarty’s wrath, including break his promise.

The other thing I can’t stop blaming myself for is how easily I believed his lies. Or specifically the lie he told to make me leave St. Barts without him.

Yes, I was tired. I hadn’t slept in almost 24 hours at that point. But I was a soldier – a surgeon! I was used to sleeplessness, to keeping my head despite it.

And it was such a flimsy lie too: Mrs. Hudson had been shot, but he couldn’t be arsed about it because he had a case on. He was ‘thinking.’ And she was just his landlady.

If being his lover had taught me anything, it taught me that Sherlock cared deeply about his friends – about me and Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and even Mycroft. Deeper than he’d ever be able to express. So why was I so willing to believe he would blow her off like that?

What if I hadn’t gotten back to St Bart’s in time? What if my last words to Sherlock had been to call him a machine? To storm away angry and self-righteous when I should have been by his side!

Why didn’t I drag him with me, away from that cursed place? Why didn’t I stay with him?

How could I have been such an idiot? How did I not know better?

I can barely live with my regrets. I loved him more than anything. How did I miss so much!?

 

—

 

When Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s, I didn’t expect him to fall. I don’t know what I expected.

I remember the sick thrill of surprise, then the full-blown panic... then I was struck from behind. I hit the pavement hard, my bell rung. 

The panic got me back on my feet, despite the disorientation and dizziness of what was probably a mild concussion. 

I saw him lying in a heap. 

There was blood. 

There were hands holding me back. “Let me see him. He’s my friend! He’s my friend.”

Even then I kept my promise to him. ‘He’s my friend,’ not ‘he’s my lover.’ ‘He’s my partner.’ 

‘He’s mine.’

I touched his wool coat – sense memory of putting my arms around him while he wore it. I touched the cotton of his shirt cuff. I touched his arm. It was warm but limp. I couldn’t locate a pulse... then the hands pulled me away.

“No... don’t. Sherlock! I love you!” I’d said into the phone, desperate, disbelieving.

“I love you too, John. You’ve given me such happiness. More than I deserved.”

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me! Sherlock! Don’t leave me!”

“I’m sorry. Goodbye, John.”

He made a gesture that I realised was him tossing his phone away. “SHERLOCK!”

I shook off the restraining hands, my shout echoing through my mind. <> I knelt in the gutter, sick with shock, dizzy and nauseous, and threw up. I’d eaten very little since Sherlock and I had been arrested – and escaped – but my body heaved and heaved long after there was anything to expel. They’d taken him away on a stretcher... maybe he survived the fall... I needed to follow them (no pulse in his limp arm)... I needed to be certain.

I felt a hand on my back.

“John.” He rubbed my back, helped calm my heaving stomach.

Lestrade.

I didn’t want Greg. I wanted Sherlock.

“Come on.” He said, helping me to my feet. The head rush almost put me on the ground again, but Greg supported me. He put his arms around me and I sobbed into his chest.

I let Greg do the talking inside the hospital. A profound numbness was overtaking me, my brain buzzed with it.

I listened as A&E confirmed that someone matching Sherlock’s description had been there. (Right, yeah, the jumper...) They directed us to the morgue.

Greg walked with me, guided me, his hand firmly on my upper arm. 

“Sit here, John.” Greg murmured, pushing me into a chair. “I’ll talk to Molly – or someone. Are you up to doing the formal identification.”

I looked up at him. “Yes.” I said. 

“I’ve taken care of it.” I closed my eyes. I didn’t have to see him to know it was Mycroft.

Mycroft... why didn’t that seem right? “You got here awfully fast.” I said.

“My little brother is mortally wounded, of course I got here quickly.” Mycroft replied.

“Wounded?” I asked, hope blooming frantically in my chest.

Mycroft looked at me sadly. “Mortally.” He repeated. “He’s dead, John. I’m sorry.” I felt his fingers on my face and jerked away, shocked. “Lestrade, has someone looked at his head?” Mycroft was staring down at me, his eyes hooded. “It looks bad.”

“No.” I said. “I don’t need looked at. Leave me alone.” The thought of being fussed over was intolerable.

Mycroft lingered a moment longer, looking as if he might say something else. But then he straightened his posture, gripped his umbrella, and left.

“I’ll take you home.” Greg said. I let him.

How had this happened? Yesterday we were happy, we were in love. We had everything. 

Today Sherlock was dead. 

Today Sherlock had killed himself.

“He did it for us.” I said.

“What?” Greg was driving, navigating London traffic with a preternatural patience.

“He did it for us.” I repeated. “Sherlock.”

Greg looked at me, his expression tortured. “What do you mean.”

“Moriarty. He got to the jury – that’s how he was acquitted. He threatened the people they loved. That’s what he does. He threatened us – you, me, Mrs. Hudson, Molly – maybe even Mycroft. Moriarty made him do it, made him .... jump... to spare us – that’s the only thing that makes sense!”

“So Moriarty is real...”

“Of course he’s real!” I shouted. “Do you actually think Sherlock is a fraud!? That Sherlock invented him!?”

“No, no, you’re right. I know Sherlock wasn’t a fraud.”

Wasn’t. 

The past tense felt like a punch in the solar plexus, all the air gone from my lungs in an instant, leaving me gasping.

Sherlock was dead. He was really dead.

I was alone.

 

—

 

Mycroft made the funeral arrangements. 

Mrs. Hudson was in and out of the flat, not that I paid much attention. She fluttered around, making sure there was food and tea. I ate and drank what she insisted upon and tasted nothing.

“The service is tomorrow.” She said. 

I nodded. Mycroft’s assistant had called.

“John...” She said.

“I know.” I said. “Tomorrow.”

“Finish your tea, dear.”

“I’m not hungry.” I said. “I’m going to lie down.” I listened to her rattling around in the kitchen until she left.

Mycroft appeared at the flat, filling me with dull surpise.

“What do you want?” I asked.

I felt his eyes as they flicked over me, taking in my rumpled pyjamas and bare feet, deducing instantly how long it had been since I’d slept, since I bathed, since I’d eaten. “A suit. For Sherlock to be buried in.”

I almost shut the door in his face. But the flare of anger faded and I nodded. I turned and led him into our bedroom. “Take What you want.” I said.

His sharp eyes lingered on the bed Sherlock had shared with me – the bed that still smelled of Sherlock and the joyous sex we’d had the morning before we were arrested. The bed I’d been lying in when Mycroft came to the door.

Then he moved to the closet and sorted quickly through the dark suits, choosing the black one that Sherlock had liked best – the cut was slightly slimmer than the others, and it showed off his lean physique to great advantage. 

I hesitated then pulled Sherlock’s aubergine shirt from the rack and held it out to Mycroft. He took it. “Shoes.” He said. I picked up his best pair and then pulled aubergine socks from the drawer and tucked them into one of the shoes. 

I thought for a second, then opened another drawer for a pair of clean black pants that I tucked into the other shoe. Sherlock always liked to be well-dressed.

“That’s quite a bruise, John.” Mycroft said. I’d forgotten about the lump on my forehead.

“I’m fine.” I said flatly, conscious that I was far from fine. But there was nothing Mycroft could do to help me. He couldn’t bring Sherlock back.

“My little brother wouldn’t like how you’re neglecting yourself...”

“Then he shouldn’t have jumped off a fucking building.” I snapped. I glared at him, fists clenched, daring him to say another word.

He took Sherlock’s clothes and left. I went back to bed.

I liked the way the bed smelled. Familiar. If I closed my eyes and drifted, Sherlock could be laying next to me. He could have just gotten up to make tea to bring back for us to drink together.

“John?”

I looked up and blinked. Lestrade was standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Greg? What are you doing here?” I sat up.

“You didn’t answer the door. I brought fish and chips.” He said, holding up a greasy bag.

I narrowed my eyes. “Mycroft called you.” I said. I wondered briefly what Lestrade might think about me laying in Sherlock’s bed. I realised I didn’t care.

“Yeah.” Lestrade admitted. He winced. “You’ve got quite a bruise there, John, you OK?” He pointed at his own forehead to indicate mine.

“It’s fine!” I said.

Lestrade nodded. “Come and eat then.” He walked away, towards the kitchen.

After a moment I got up and followed him. He stood uncertainly by the table, holding the greasy paper bag.

“Take off your coat. Sit.” I said, getting a couple of beers from the fridge.

Lestrade produced a bottle of rather nice whisky from the pocket of his coat and set it on the table. I got a couple glasses out and reached for the whisky.

“Nuh-uh.” Lestrade said, pulling the bottle out of reach. “Eat first.”

“That’s extortion.” I said.

Lestrade shrugged and sat down.

I poked at the bag. The smell of the fish made me nauseous.

Lestrade opened it and spread out the food, the battered, fried fish wrapped in waxed paper and chips, lots of chips. Extra chips, it looked like. Lestrade opened the little containers of malt vinegar and aioli. He broke off a bit of fish and dipped it in the malt vinegar. “Come on.” He said.

I took a few slugs of beer and managed some chips. Lestrade ate steadily. The chips settled my stomach a bit and I ate some more. I tried some of the fish. It tasted like childhood at the shore.

I was always smaller than the other boys, smaller and red-headed, ripe for bullying. I learned to fight early, learned to show the bigger boys that they couldn’t scare me, couldn’t take advantage of me. I took a few beatings, but I was quick. Small and quick, I would get under their guard and knock them down before they even got a blow in. Then I’d offer my hand to help them up. Most boys took it. Some didn’t and I’d have to fight, have to work for the respect I demanded. I never considered not fighting.

It was the same in rugby. I had to prove myself like the bigger lads didn’t. Over and over, I stood up to their challenges, took my hits and gave as good as I got. Gave more than I got. And in the end it was me that they voted captain, not any of the other lads. 

By the time I enlisted, I didn’t even think about it any more. As a captain, my rank demanded respect. But I didn’t rest on my rank, I earned their respect as a man and as a soldier. 

Medical school was no different. Only the challenges were of skill and intellectual rigour rather than with fists. I earned my place among them with the same singlemindedness I’d earned my place among the neighborhood boys. I had always been good with my hands.

Sherlock knew all this about me the first time we met. He told me once that he’d seen it in the callouses and scars on my knuckles, then he’d kissed each knuckle in turn.

“Sherlock came by my office about a week ago.” Lestrade said, pouring a measure of whisky in each of our glasses.

“What did he want?” I asked. The surprise bubbled around inside me, bumping up against the numbness.

“He wanted to talk about the sniper case. He’d tracked down that receipt. Did he tell you?”

“No.” I picked up my glass of whisky and drained it in one swallow.

“It WAS for a dry cleaner. The clerk knew the customer, said his name was Ross Noble. He came in a lot, apparently, a real clothes horse.”

“That’s... erm, great. Did you bring him in?” I tried to work up some enthusiasm for the case. I poured myself more whisky.

“‘Ross Noble’ doesn’t exist.” Lestrade leaned towards me. “The clerk said he was an actor – and here’s the thing – Moriarty came into the dry cleaner’s with him several times. They were friends.”

“The sniper and Moriarty!”

“Yeah. During the trial, Moriarty’s picture was everywhere. The clerk asked Noble about it. Noble told him that the crimes, the trial, that it was all a job – an acting job.”

“Before the story came out in the paper?”

“Before he was acquitted.”

“Bloody hell.” The ramifications swirled around my brain. “Sherlock knew what Moriarty was going to do.”

“He had several theories, but he didn’t know how it would turn out. He admitted he was frustrated, but I got the sense he was trying to prepare for... any eventuality. John, Sherlock said something might happen to him, and if it did, he asked me to look after you.”

“I don’t need ‘looking after!’” It was out of my mouth before the rest of the sentence penetrated. I threw back the whisky.

Lestrade chuckled. “He said you’d say that. He told me to tell you that everyone needs looking after sometimes.” He paused. “John, this might be out of line, but ... he gave the impression that you two were...”

“What did he say?” I asked sharply.

“He said, ‘I’m the luckiest man in the world.’”

That hit me hard – the pain crashing through me. Agony hollowing me out. I bowed my head trying to contain my grief. “We were together.” I managed. “The last few months. We didn’t tell anyone because Sherlock was convinced Moriarty would target me if he found out.” My grief turned to anger in a moment. “Moriarty! He’s to blame for all of this! And the clerk proves it! He had this planned out! Forcing Sherlock to jump, that’s murder! You can arrest him...”

“Moriarty’s dead.” Lestrade said.

“What?!”

“Moriarty’s dead. Mycroft didn’t tell you? We found him on the roof after Sherlock... well...” Lestrade took a slug of his whisky. “We found Moriarty’s body. Single gunshot to the head.”

“Gun... Did Sherlock...?”

“No! No, self-inflicted.”

“Moriarty committed suicide?” The irony of it enraged me. The utter uselessness of Sherlock’s death emptied me of ...everything... I poured myself more whisky and swallowed it down. “It’s over.” I said.

“John, Sherlock was afraid that Noble, that the sniper would target you next.”

“Me? Why?”

“He’s connected to Moriarty.”

“That’s pretty flimsy.”

“Sherlock didn’t think so. He was convinced you’re in real danger. He wanted me to protect you.”

I scoffed and covered my face with my hands. Even dead, Sherlock couldn’t stop fussing over me! “I don’t need protection.” I said.

“I know. But Sherlock made me promise.”

I sighed. I filled my glass and raised it. “To Sherlock.” I said.

“To Sherlock.” Lestrade agreed and clinked his glass to mine.

 

—-

 

We finished the bottle – well, mostly me. Lestrade passed out on the couch. I returned to the bed I’d shared with Sherlock and wrapped myself in his duvet. His pillow smelled faintly the way his hair had smelled, of eucalyptus shampoo and herbal-scented grooming cream.

I had expected to pass out too, for the whisky to allow me to submerge myself in the forgetfulness of sleep. But I didn’t. I lay awake hour after hour, the room tilting drunkenly, my stomach with it. My inebriation faded slowly, unnoticed like the rotation of the earth. The ceiling stayed the same until dawn shone a first light through the window. I watched the light fill the room.

I heard Lestrade get up and leave. I heard Mrs. Hudson come in and put the kettle on. I lay unmoving, time drifting by me unheeded, until an hour and a half before the funeral. Then I dragged myself into the bog to wash and shave. The length of my stubble surprised me. I hadn’t shaved since the day before Sherlock jumped.

I sat between Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson at the funeral. I’d worn my best suit, such as it was, but I should have worn a jumper. Sherlock had said that my jumpers were one of the things he’d loved about me, the silly fool. I barely heard the service.

Afterwards, I let Mrs. Hudson guide me to the lobby. She stayed by my side, an anchor, and island. Something that I could hold onto in all the madness.

Mycroft hovered over me – he was a hundred times fussier than Sherlock and he’d decided to fuss over me. 

“Are your parents here?” Mrs. Hudson asked him. “I’d like to tell them how special Sherlock was to me.”

“No.” Mycroft replied. “My mother collapsed when I told her the news.”

“Oh no!” She fluttered. “Is she all right?”

“She will be, I think. I’m headed there this evening. My father is with her now.”

“Well, give her my best. And my deepest sympathy.”

“Yes.” Mycroft said, eyeing me. “John.”

I looked up at him. He looked tired.

“John, I need to speak to you about Sherlock’s will. I’ll be back in town next week, would Tuesday be convenient?”

“Yeah.” I said, feeling confused. Sherlock’s will?

“I’ll send a car to pick you up.” He paused, pursing his mouth fussily. “Please take care of yourself, John.”

“Take me home.” I said to Mrs. Hudson. “I can’t be here any more.”

“Yes, dear.” She patted my hand and started towards the doors. 

I shied. “Not that way.” I said. “There has to be a back exit.”

The front was crowded with press. On the way in, they’d photographed me and shouted their questions.

“Dr. Watson, did you know that Sherlock was a fraud?”

“Dr. Watson, were you in on the conspiracy.”

“When did you find out? Did you feel betrayed?”

“Dr. Watson, John! Did you know Sherlock was suicidal?”

I wondered idly if Sherlock were still front page news, if photos of me coming to the funeral would be published. 

I let Mrs. Hudson lead me away from the front. We pushed through a set of doors and found ourselves at the far end of the chapel, near a coffin. Sherlock’s coffin. 

I froze. A tidal wave of pain crashed over me, obliterating the numbness and pushing me to my knees. A great sob ripped through me, choked me. I heard a keening, and realized it came from my own throat.

How could Sherlock leave me?! He’d promised me! How could he leave me alone like this!? How could he!?

 

—

 

The last time we made love... it was early in the morning. I got up to slash and when I got back to bed, Sherlock was awake – he always woke up when I did.

“I’m surprised you want to sleep with me.” I said, crawling under the duvet. I was hard, pissing hadn’t deflated my morning wood at all.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, very slightly alarmed. Not alarmed enough to keep his hands off my prick.

“I keep waking you up. You aren’t getting any sleep.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m getting the same amount of sleep I always get.” He jacked my cock and I moaned. “I’m just spending more time in bed.”

“Mmmm...” I kissed him. He had morning breath and so did I. I didn’t care. “At least you’re making good use of the time.” My hands traveled over his lean form. By then I knew exactly how to touch him, what he liked best. My fingers bypassed his prick and balls to worry at his hole. It was Sherlock’s turn to moan. He spread his legs wide and rolled on top of me. He bit my clavicle and rubbed himself against me, pushing himself down on my fingers.

“Fuck me.” Sherlock said.

“You’re on top...”

Sherlock grinned and stretched across to the bed table and came back with the lube. “Sit up.” He commanded. I did, settling my back against a pillow on the headboard.

Sherlock straddled my thighs. He spread lube all over my cock then lifted himself up and positioned it against his entrance. Slowly he impaled himself, grimacing slightly. I caressed his prick as he worked his way down. Soon enough Sherlock was sitting on my hips, then he rocked himself forward and I gasped with the pleasure.

“I love your cock.” Sherlock sighed.

He fucked himself, bouncing and rocking, using the spring of the mattress to set a jouncing rhythm, then backing off, edging me and himself. He was flushed and beautiful, his pink nipples standing straight up, the barbel taut and inviting. I took it in my mouth, nipple and metal, and sucked letting my teeth rub against the flesh.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he redoubled his efforts on my cock, his own bouncing up and down, the Prince Albert through the head slapping my abdomen, then his own. I took it in hand but he pushed me away and pinned my wrists to the headboard.

“Don’t touch it.” He gasped. “It’s more intense if you don’t touch it.”

I begged him not to slow down again, to let me cum. Sherlock laughed and obliged, ramming himself down my pole over and over, working my cock relentlessly with his arse. I looped a finger through the ring at the head of his prick and tugged, yanking the piercing roughly as Sherlock used my cock.

“John! Oh, yes!” Sherlock moaned. Then he came quite suddenly, shuddering and spurting a jet of semen across my abdomen, his tight hole somehow becoming tighter. He collapsed onto my chest and I wrapped my arms around him, dug my heels into the mattress and fucked him through his climax, jackhammering until I felt my engorged cock swell and spit, and I was floating on the crashing waves of pleasure, Sherlock in my arms.

“God, how I love you!”

 

—

 

By Tuesday, I’d forgotten the appointment with Mycroft. I’d been taking long, rambling walks through the city, trying to leave my pain behind me. Trying to outrun my memories and my regrets. But my traitorous feet took me to places I had been with Sherlock. 

As far as the stages of grief were concerned, I was stuck firmly between denial and anger with a large helping of depression capping it off. I still wasn’t sleeping much and food... food tasted like cardboard and sat like wet cement in my stomach. I needed a job, but I was incapable of focusing long enough to find one, let alone to do it. 

The sheets on the bed I’d shared with Sherlock had stopped smelling of him and started smelling like someone unwashed had been wallowing in it for days. So I walked.

One day, I looked around and found myself in Chinatown, between the restaurant we had eaten in and the flat door at which I had shouted abuse whilst Sherlock infiltrated through an upstairs window. 

I couldn’t breathe. All the oxygen had been sucked out of the world. I stood there gasping desperately like a fish out of water. The vacuum around me was the entire universe, the planets and the stars, asteroids, comets, everything. It was beautiful. And it was all made of pain.

I knew then that I would never be free of this agony. Over time, it would condense and harden, become a glittering diamond of glorious memories and terrible, empty, yearning loss. I might even find another partner eventually, but she – or he – would be a pale shadow of what I had with Sherlock. It would be a nightmare.

The life ahead of me stretched endlessly. I had decades yet to suffer. How would I live without him?

Fuck me, I had to get a job. There were bills. The rent would be due soon. I had put off finding another job, allowing myself the luxury of enjoying the first months of giddy love unfettered by obligation. Sherlock and I had been in each other’s pockets, spending almost all our time together – so much so, that I knew when Sherlock must have visited Lestrade. It had been wonderful. I had loved making Sherlock so happy.

At least I had given him that. I couldn’t even imagine my regrets if I had held myself back, kept myself from being with him. At least I had given him some happiness.

But I should have been on that roof with him! I should have had his back, protected him from Moriarty! How had I been so stupid?! How had I let him convince me to leave him alone when I knew that maniac was gunning for him!

I couldn’t even go after that maniac. He’d taken any justice I might have gotten, taken any hope of revenge, with him when he’d blown his own head off. 

And maybe he’d left a sniper behind to kill me. To rub salt in Sherlock’s mortal wounds from beyond the grave – he forced Sherlock over the edge of the roof to save me (Because what else would have convinced him? Sherlock didn’t give a shit if people thought he was a fake.) and now he’d have me killed anyway. The sniper could have me in his crosshairs this very moment.

I wished the sniper would just do it. Just put me out of this misery. Because what was I supposed to do now?! Goddammit, Sherlock! What was I supposed to do without him?!

I suddenly came to the realisation that I had to move. I couldn’t afford the flat on my own. And I couldn’t bear to have someone else living there, sitting in Sherlock’s chair. Touching Sherlock’s things... No. I had to find a place of my own where everything didn’t remind me of him. A fresh start. A clean slate. 

“Dr. Watson?”

The voice roused me from my reverie. It came from a black saloon car that had pulled up to the curb. Mycroft’s car. I got in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’ve enjoyed this so far.


	7. One More Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is leaving London and John.

SHERLOCK 

‘Sherlock Holmes’ Partner-in-Crime Attends Fake Genius Funeral: Was Bachelor John Watson In On The Scam?’

I glared at the newspaper – I was shocked by the picture of John on the cover. (Below the big photo of me in that stupid hat.) He was gaunt and grey in his good suit, a nasty bruise darkening his brow, clinging to Mrs. Hudson as if he might drown if he let go of her arm. He didn’t seem angered by the paparazzi as I expected, he seemed stunned, shell-shocked. 

I quizzed Mycroft about him. “He looks terrible, Mycroft! Why does he look so terrible!?”

“He thinks you’re dead, brother mine, and apparently, he was quite attached to you. How do you expect him to look?”

“Mrs. Hudson looks the same! Lestrade looks the same!”

“Were you having relations with them too?”

“Mycroft!”

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“You need to DO something!”

“What could I possibly do?”

“I don’t know! I can’t stand to see him this way!”

“Then I suggest you don’t look.”

“He’s not taking care of himself.”

“No, he’s not.”

“But he HAS to.”

“What did you expect, Sherlock? He was decompensating when you met him, you thought your death would be a walk in the park?”

“I can’t lose him, Mycroft.”

“You’re dead, brother dear. You’ve already lost him.”

“No! When is he coming here, Mycroft? When are you talking to him?”

“We discussed this, Sherlock. You can’t see him. He can’t know – for his own safety as well as yours. Otherwise, why did we go through this ridiculous charade?!”

“Then you’d best do something for him, Mycroft. Because this!” I waved the newspaper at him. “Is not acceptable.”

I had done this to John, turned him into this sad, pinched character. I hated myself for it.

But he was as safe as I could make him. 

 

\--

 

John and I had been texting all day, flirtatious texts. Sexual texts. We had only been sleeping together for a few weeks and we were still discovering each other, tentatively sharing fantasies, opening up to new worlds of pleasure. There was so much to John that I had never imagined!

**This day is interminable! Why did I think I could go eight hours without touching you?**

\- When will you get back? I have a surprise for you. -

**What kind of surprise?**

\- Not telling. You’ll have to make me show you. -

**Make you?**

\- Force me. -

**Fuck! That’s hot. You want me to force you... physically?**

\- Yes. Please. -

**You want it rough.**

\- yes -

**I was a soldier, I can get pretty rough - you think you can handle it**

\- I love handling it -

**how rough?**

\- Everything you’ve got, soldier. I’m not fragile. -

**I’m so fucking turned on right now. Had to button my lab coat to avoid offending the patients**

\- you’re hard?

**SO HARD!**

I was high on sex. High on John, the heady scent of his lust, the feel of his cock stretching my mouth, the taste of his semen...

**home in an hour. Be ready!** John texted. I shuddered with anticipation. I was ready – I had been ready all day. 

When I heard him on the stairs, I sprang out of my chair full of nervous energy. I was already half-hard.

John strode in the door, shedding his coat and tossing it on the couch. He walked directly to me and grabbed me by the arms. He pulled me into a kiss – it was demanding.

“Where’s my surprise?” He asked. 

“I’ll never tell.” I breathed. I could feel his erect cock against my thigh. I sank to my knees and unfastened John’s trousers as quickly as I could. 

John pushed the hair back from my face tenderly. “God, you’re hot... you’re serious, you want me to... take charge? Coerce you?”

I kissed his belly, bit him gently. “Desperately!” I said.

I opened his trousers and tugged. His prick popped out of his pants and I had it in my mouth.

John grabbed fistfuls of my hair and pulled my head in. I felt his thick cock pressing against the back of my throat and I worked to relax it. He pulled out and thrust with his hips and forced his cock down my throat. I hummed in appreciation. I pressed my face into his abdomen, my chin resting on his pelvic bone. Then John began fucking my mouth. 

I tasted his arousal on my tongue – I was so hard! I palmed my own erection as he thrust himself down my throat over and over. God, I loved his cock. 

Suddenly he pulled out entirely. I moaned and tried to follow, but his hands in my hair held me back. 

“I didn’t rush home for a blow job.” He said, pulling me roughly to my feet. I shivered with delight. “Take your trousers off.” He commanded.

I did. As soon as I had stepped out of them, John pinned me face down on the kitchen table. He had my arm twisted up behind me in such a way that I couldn’t move. I panted against the wood and wiggled my bum. I was so enflamed, I had to be dripping precome on the kitchen floor. The thought made me giddy and I wiggled my arse again.

John kicked my legs wide apart and stroked my buttocks. “Oh my god.” He said under his breath. He’d found it, his surprise. He’d seen how I’d prepared for him.

“How long…” He asked. “How long have you had that…?”

“All day.” I said. This morning I had cleaned myself out and lubed up. I’d played with my butt plugs until I could take the biggest one, the one that was almost as wide as John’s fireplug cock. 

John twisted the plug and it scraped against my prostate. “Oh!” I moaned, pleasure coursing through my body. 

John pulled it out of me slowly. “God, you’re gaping!” He sighed. I could feel it, feel my hole stretched wide open, empty and huge.

“Fuck me! Christ! Fuck me please!” I begged.

John pushed in, filling me.

“Fuck me hard!”

He pulled out slowly, then abruptly shoved his cock inside me. “YES!” I cried out.

He ripped it out of my body and stuffed it back in hard. “You like that?”

“Yes!” I loved it! “Harder!”

”I’m going to ruin your arse.” He growled.

John fucked me, his hips slapping against my spread buttocks, slamming me against the table. John fucked me savagely, keeping me pinned, immobilized beneath him. I couldn’t have escaped if I tried – but why would I want to escape such a divine battering? 

He rammed my hole, grunting with each thrust. The hand not holding me down, found my shoulder and he used it as leverage to fuck me harder and harder. It was PERFECT, John abusing my hole like it needed to be abused, his strong hand on my shoulder – a hand that had touched me with such gentleness now gripping me like a vice. I was completely at his mercy! 

Suddenly he slowed and stroked into me with excruciating deliberateness. I wept with lust and frustration, gyrating my hips, trying to take more of him.

His hand moved from my shoulder to fist in my hair again, yanking my head up off the table. He pulled my hair viciously and resumed jackhammering in earnest. I could hear him panting – or maybe that was me.

Twice more John slowed to almost a stop and teased me, made me beg for his cock. Then he’d shove it in me with his full weight behind it, coring me, impaling me, ravaging my eager hole vigorously. With each thrust, my cock rubbed against the hard lip of the table – over and over, almost painfully, but absolutely perfectly.

“Oh! I’m going to cum!” I wailed.

And then I did, my back locking up and my knees giving out, pleasure like electric shocks jolting my body. I let out a long gasping wail and shot great ropes under the table.

John fucked me through it, ramming himself into me. As I shuddered to limpness, I felt his cock expand and fill my guts with heat. John groaned epically, his hands loosening their hold so I sprawled boneless as he came inside me. He collapsed onto my back, the sweat on his face soaking through my shirt to mingle with the sweat on my back.

After a few long breaths, John stood up, but the heel of his hand pressed between my shoulder blades kept me down on the table. I felt something… John carefully reinserted the butt plug. 

“There.” He said. “Don’t you dare let my cum out.”

I shivered with filthy delight and agreed to his demand. “I love you.” I said.

 

—

 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft demanded. He had access to all the CCTV in the country (and quite a bit from the continent) on his laptop – which I was busily making use of. Mycroft commandeered the screen. “I should have known!” He said disapprovingly. “You have to rid yourself of this morbid curiosity and get to work!”

“It’s not curiosity!” I protested, reclaiming the laptop. “Moriarty’s people will be watching John, looking for me, looking for any indication that I’m not dead…”

“Which is why you should stay as far away from him as possible, brother.”

I sighed, put-upon. “I’m HERE, aren’t I? Hidden away in your basement.” I huffed impatiently. “Mycroft, John could be key in tracking down at least one of Moriarty’s chief lieutenants.”

“Who?” Mycroft, as usual, sounded dubious.

“I only have an alias: Ross Noble. He’s an assassin – a trained sniper. Very efficient. I think he’d be of more than passing use to Moriarty.”

“Indeed. But he’s far from the most pressing item on your list” I started to protest, but Mycroft cut me off. “We agreed that you’d start with the cell in America…” 

“We agreed that John would be safe!” I snapped. “Before anything else. If this sniper is aiming at John, I want to know. I want to take him out. Then I’ll go to America.”

“Very well.” Mycroft agreed grudgingly. “But get it done quickly. The sooner you’re out of the country, the better.”

I waved him away.

I needed a disguise. I knew where John and Mrs. Hudson were headed and it was a good place to flush out anyone trailing them.

But it had to be a very good disguise – Mycroft was right, we’d gone to great lengths to neutralize Moriarty, I couldn’t throw it all away for sentiment. I would have to be unrecognizable not just to Moriarty’s people, but to Mrs. Hudson and John. AND I’d have to foil computerized gait analysis and facial recognition programs.

I got to work turning myself into a down-and-out widowed pensioner and war veteran. I had already had my hair cropped short for my disguise in America, I pulled on a man’s silver wig. I added a grey beard and mustache, hollowed out cheeks, brown contacts and red rheumy eyes behind worn spectacles. I wore a brace on my left leg – from thigh to ankle – that kept me from using my knee naturally. It simulated the knee joint of an older style prosthetic leg. I dressed neatly in older, well-mended trousers and a shirt and donned a thick cardigan that didn’t hide the tired slope of my shoulders. Worn, yet polished lace up boots, overcoat and a trilby finished the outfit.

I set out.

Mycroft’s house is a wonder of spycraft. It’s a modest brick house in Mayfair – not the posh part, but the anonymously middle-class part. Like the still-standing facades of row houses demolished to accommodate the Underground, the homes neighboring Mycroft’s are actually part of his complex, insulating him from contact with punters and rubes. The whole place is wired to the gills, infiltration would be impossible (I know, I’ve tried often enough). There’s a control room where Mycroft’s security detail is camped and an excellent kitchen staffed with a very accommodating cook. But the real marvel is the basement. Or the basements. There are three levels below the first floor, each serving a specific purpose 

The lowest is Mycroft’s bunker. If London is ever bombed again – even with a nuclear blast – Mycroft could survive indefinitely in his bunker. Despite the crates of food, water, medicines and other supplies for said indefinite survival, it’s quite spacious and comfortable. This is where I have been staying.

The floor just below street level is the original basement of the house. There’s a root cellar and a wine cellar, the furnace, electric grid and laundry along with an impressive armory that I had raided on more than one occasion.

The center level is an engineering feat the like of which I’ve never seen. Through it, one can access tunnels that twist and travel underneath all of London. One can emerge in any of over two dozen places, unseen. Or one could vanish, if one could find an entrance and knew the passcode. One tunnel leads directly to Mycroft’s club, another to Parliament, so he can appear and disappear at will – if he’s of a mind to walk that far.

I have always found Mycroft’s tunnels to be incredibly useful. And Mycroft to be exceedingly stingy with allowing me to use them.

But since my ‘death’ I had the run of them. I grabbed a torch and set off down the tunnel that would take me to Kensington where I could get the Underground at Gloucester Road to Paddington and change there for Kensal Green – my grave was in the cemetery there.

I arrived at the Kensal Green cemetery before John and Mrs. Hudson, but not by much. I’d hoped to have time to surveil the grounds, find a good vantage from which to watch for stalkers. Unfortunately, I only had time to drop the listening device into the flowers by my gravestone and hike up the hill to a small memorial near the tree line before they were standing solemnly at my grave 

The bug transmitted their conversation to the receiver in my ear. I heard John’s voice for the first time since my ‘death’ when he’d tried to find my pulse as I lay on the sidewalk. I hadn’t thought about what I was doing to him then, I been so focused on keeping limp and still, keeping the squash ball in place, pressed tightly in my armpit, cutting off the heartbeat in that arm.

But now, listening to him talking about me with Mrs. Hudson, I was painfully conscious of what I had put him through.

“I’m angry.” John said. I almost laughed – John’s capacity for anger was bottomless. But he didn’t sound angry. He sounded distraught.

“It’s okay, John. There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel.” Mrs. Hudson told him. I listened to her list all my ‘faults’ with half an ear as I surveyed the grounds for their tail.

There! Invisible to anyone standing at my grave, but obvious to me as they flanked John and Mrs. Hudson. For a moment, I thought they might attack my friends right here in the cemetery. I readied myself for a fight. But then the woman moved on, circling back towards the man.

Was he the sniper? The man who’d claimed Moriarty as a friend?

“I’ll leave you alone to, erm ... you know.” Mrs. Hudson said, patting his arm. She walked away from John. The woman paralleled her path.

“You ... you told me once that you weren’t a hero.” The words caught me off guard. I hadn’t thought John would talk when he was alone. But it was MY John – my soldier, my friend, my lover – talking to ME. 

“Umm ... there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you are a fraud, and so ... there.” He was close to tears – I’d never heard his voice like this! “I was SO alone, and I owe you so much.”

I wiped my own eyes. John… my John! I missed him so much!

I watched sadly as he walked away, my heart breaking – but then he turned around. He touched my gravestone and I wished his hand wasn’t on cold granite, but on me.

“No, please, there’s just one more thing, my love, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for ME. Don’t ... be... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.” And then he wept. His broken heart pouring out in pleas and tears. 

I wanted to go to him. I COULD perform that miracle – and there was no one else I would do it for. I had to physically stop myself from running to John and throwing myself at his feet, begging forgiveness.

Instead I knelt at the memorial in front of me, gritting my teeth against the cry that wanted to escape, to bring John to me. I could still see him weeping, wiping his face with his hands. Even in grief, he was beautiful – the sun catching the copper in his hair, his expressive face in profile. I had traced his profile with my fingers… with my lips…

John stood up straight and saluted the gravestone. 

I choked on my own grief. God damn Jim Moriarty and his obsession with me to hell! Why NOW just when I’d found such happiness with John? For most of my life, pretending to die and traveling the world hunting criminals would have been a lark. Why now!? 

If only there had been another way to rid the world of the threat he posed! But, of course Moriarty required me to give up everything dear to me to best him. God damn the man!

John rejoined Mrs. Hudson and they walked arm-in-arm to the gates. I followed their tail.

 

\--

 

I lay on the pavement. It’s cold and damp. Damp with my own blood. I try to look around, but all I can see is the sky. And the façade of a tall building. St. Bart’s.

Then I remember. I jumped. I’m dead.

I’m surrounded by people. I don’t know any of them. I want them to go away. Leave me in peace.

Then I hear John.

“Let me through. He’s my friend!”

John!

I try to reach out towards him… but I cannot. My limbs will not respond. 

I am dead.

John touches my arm, my wrist. I realise he’s searching for my pulse. 

Does he find it?

John is pulled away from me…

I wake in a cold sweat, vertigo stealing the mattress from under me for a second. Then it is there, solid and firm, and I am lying in bed. 

“John.” I whisper. I shouldn’t wake him up, but I’m still disoriented. “John.” 

“Mmmm… what is it, love?” He asks, shaking himself awake. 

“I had a dream.” I tell him. “It was horrible.”

“Come here.” John says and wraps his arms around me. “Tell me about your dream.”

With my head on John’s chest, his fingers gently combing through my hair, I tell him. “I dreamed I jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s. I was dead. I was dead, but I knew what was going on around me. You were there… you couldn’t find my pulse…”

“Shhh.” John sooths me. “It was just a dream. We’re here in our bed.”

“It was just a dream.”

I wake in the pitch dark, vertigo stealing the mattress from under me for a long second. Then it’s there, solid and firm and I am lying in bed. I reach for John… but he isn’t there. 

I remember. I’m sleeping in Mycroft’s bunker, thirty meters underground. Alone. 

John is lost to me.

 

\--

 

I didn’t dare go near John again. 

I passed off the surveillance to Mycroft’s people and read the reports on the stalking pair. I doubted that either of them had been the sniper – he didn’t match the description that the clerk at the Dry Cleaners had given. And he wasn’t well-dressed. That could all be a disguise, of course, but the height was wrong. That’s harder to disguise without affecting some sort of injury.

I threw myself into preparations for America. It would take time to establish myself there and work my way into Moriarty’s organization. I practiced my accent and vocabulary – to avoid having to have a perfect American accent, I would pose as an émigré from the Czech Republic. Lapses in slang or customs would not be notable.

I also practiced with the knives. I needed to use them deftly, as if I had been butchering animals since childhood. It was boring. But mistakes in America would not be boring – they would be much too interesting for my taste.

Still, I watched John on Mycroft’s CCTV. He had started walking for hours, aimlessly. Occasionally he would hesitate and look around, then hurry away. The third time this happened, John was outside Irene Adler’s house – I realised he was finding himself in places we had been together. It was easy to avoid our usual haunts – the restaurants we’d favoured, the shops and pubs in our neighborhood. It was harder to avoid the places that our cases had taken us.

I was following John on CCTV Tuesday – as I practiced throwing the knives and reciting Czechoslovakian verbs – when I saw him stop dead. I recognised Soo Lin’s front door immediately and watched as John leaned heavily against it, burying his face in his hands. Long fingers of guilt squeezed my heart and I yearned to be with him. 

It wasn’t fair that I had to give him up! It wasn’t fair that I had to hurt him so! It wasn’t fair that by the time I finished unraveling Moriarty’s web, I would be nothing to John but a distant memory! I wanted him! Not in my bed – although, of course I wanted him there – but in my life!

I needed him.

On the grainy image John looked up. I moved closer, examining the scene and watched John climb into a dark, governmental car. Mycroft’s car! John was coming here now!

I took a moment to calm my breathing – wouldn’t do to hyperventilate – then put the knives away. I made my way upstairs stealthily – the only way this would work is if I got in position early. Mycroft wouldn’t like this, but if I were careful, he wouldn’t know. I bypassed the agents in the control center, walking nonchalantly down the hall. I didn’t spend much time upstairs in the house proper – too many windows. But today I would risk it. I slipped into Mycroft’s study, crossed the room to the library and positioned myself behind the adjoining door. And I waited.

It was forty minutes before I heard anything – and then it was Mycroft dictating to one of his aides as he came in through the front door. I listened to him shed his coat and issue a series of orders. Eventually my brother made his way into the study. He was on the phone, arguing about something deadly boring. I don’t know how he does it, waste his genius on trivia like transportation policy or trade deficits or what Putin eats for breakfast. 

Then I heard the front door again. Voices in the hall – one belovedly familiar. A knock on the study door. “Dr. Watson is here.” One of Mycroft’s assistants. “Are you ready for him?”

“Yes, send him in, please.” Mycroft said then returned to his phone call. “Angela, I have to go. Ja. Ok... ok... Auf wiedersehen. John. Come in. Sit.”

“Erm, thanks.”

“How are you?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess.” John paused and I could almost hear him gathering himself. “How are you, Mycroft? I know you and Sherlock weren’t the closest of brothers, but...”

“I didn’t see him everyday.” Mycroft said. “I find myself expecting him to text a series of demands or to get a call that he’s used my I.D. to get into the House of Lords again. And then I remember he’s gone.”

“Yeah, erm...” John sniffed and sighed. “How is your mother doing?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to sigh. “She’s home from hospital. But I’m afraid she may never fully recover. It was quite a blow.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Yeah.” There was a pregnant silence. “Mycroft?” John said finally. “Why am I here.”

“Right. Down to business then. Sherlock’s will.”

I could hear Mycroft shuffling paper. “Don’t tell me – Sherlock left me everything.” John joked.

“No.” Mycroft replied. “Most of Sherlock’s estate is part of the family holding and reverts to me as the family heir. But he left you everything else.”

John made a sound somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. “What you’re saying is, I DO have to help Mrs. Hudson with the bloody science equipment.”

I smiled to myself – I was so completely in love with him. 

“Sherlock left you two properties in London – a flat in Brompton...” Mycroft sounded disgusted. He must have seen the flat, a ramshackle bolt-hole I used very occasionally now, but had been very handy back when I was using. “A share in a pensioners home...” I’d forgotten about that. I’d needed the run of the place a few years back... “his personal effects in the flat at 221b Baker Street..”

“I KNEW it. That wanker.” John exclaimed, but there was no heat in it.

“Excepting his violin which goes to Mummy. And finally, Sherlock left you his annuity.”

“Annuity?”

“Yes. When he turned twenty-one and took control of his trust fund, Sherlock decided to lock it into monthly payments. I thought he was being ridiculous at the time, but a few years later when he’d become a heroin addict, I saw the wisdom. He would have run though all the money if he could have.”

“Sherlock was a heroin addict?”

“Surely he told you about his drug use.”

“Erm, he referenced it. I had the impression he used cocaine now and then.”

Mycroft laughed bitterly. “Yes. Sherlock used cocaine now and again – when he wanted someone to think he was anything other than a strung-out junkie.”

I remembered how Mycroft had found me, filthy, malnourished, half-frozen, half-dead and completely belligerent. I’d fought him with all my feeble strength, but he simply wrinkled his nose and had his aide carry me to the car. I was in a private rehab clinic by the end of the day – from which I ran as soon as I regained the ability to run. No, of course I hadn’t told John about that. 

“He’s come a long way.” Mycroft said, his voice uncharacteristically sentimental. “I despaired that he could sustain the most rudimentary of relationships, let alone… well, whatever he had with you, John.” 

John cleared his throat the way he did when he was emotional. 

“In any case, his annuity goes to you. I have the paperwork here – you’ll have to take this to your bank.”

“Mycroft, this isn’t necessary. I don’t want Sherlock’s money.”

Mycroft sighed. “John, it’s just easier for everyone if you take it. Transferring it back to the family would incur major penalties and scads of paperwork. Save everyone the time and effort and accept what Sherlock wanted you to have.” 

“Fine. OK.” John sounded put out. He was so strange about money! 

“Excellent. Sign here. And here.” I heard papers and the scratching of a pen.

“The trust is $24,000 pounds?” John asked. I almost scoffed out loud. 

Mycroft scoffed for me. “The annuity is $24,000 pounds per anum distributed monthly.”

“That’s… that’s 2,000 pounds a month!”

“Yes. Not enough to live on, not in London anyway. But a nice bit of walking-around money. I think Sherlock gave most of it to his tailor.”

I heard John expel a breath. He seemed angry for some reason. He certainly couldn’t begrudge my tailor.

“Is something wrong?” Mycroft asked him.

“No. No… it’s just, that’s more than my army pension. More than I made a month until I was thirty.” John muttered. 

“Yes, well…” Mycroft didn’t understand John’s attitude about money any better than I did. “I can send someone for the violin if it’s easier.”

“Yeah, send someone…”

‘Tomorrow ?”

“Doesn’t matter... I can’t go back to the flat. I can’t be there right now.”

“It can wait...”

“You don’t understand – I can’t be there anymore. I have to find someplace else to live.”

“You’re moving?” Mycroft sounded disgruntled. I wanted to protest – John COULDN’T move. I wouldn’t know how to picture him somewhere else!

“Yeah. As soon as I can find a place. I’m going to sleep on Stamford’s couch for a few days in the interim.”

“John… with the annuity, you can afford the flat. Why go to the trouble of moving?” Yes, Mycroft, make him stay!

“Everything there… Everything there is Sherlock’s. Or reminds me of Sherlock. It’s too much. I’ll never get past this surrounded by all that.” 

I wanted to scream. John was already thinking about how to forget me. This was all a horrible, horrible mistake! I could barely keep myself from wrenching open the door and running to him.

“It’s too much,” John said again, his voice breaking.

“I see.” Mycroft said. 

John sniffed and cleared his throat, pulling himself together. “If there’s nothing else…?” I heard John stand up. He was leaving – it was too soon! I couldn’t bear for him to leave yet!

The library door opened as if of its own volition and I was on the other side. “John...” I said before I could stop myself.

John whirled around. “Sher…” The syllable fell from John’s lips as he stood there blinking. For a moment I thought he might faint. 

“Good work, brother mine.” Mycroft said sarcastically. “You’ve ruined everything.”

I opened my mouth to speak… but I didn’t know what to say. I had nothing to say to Mycroft. I couldn’t look away from John. I wanted to go to him, but his expression kept me rooted to the spot.

“What. The. Bleeding! Fuck…!” John snarled, fury giving him a voice.

Mycroft shushed him. “Not here!” He sighed impatiently. “The library. At least there aren’t any windows.” He pushed John forward towards me, but he was reluctant to move.

“Sherlock! The library.” Mycroft insisted. “Do I have to do EVERYTHING!?” 

That roused me. I opened the door to the library and stepped aside to allow them to enter. Mycroft pushed John over the threshold and grabbed me savagely.

“What are you thinking!?” He snarled. 

“He has to know!” I said. 

“He can’t keep a secret! We agreed, Sherlock!”

“I didn’t agree! I can leave everything else behind, I can even leave him behind, but not without telling him why. He deserves that!”

“I thought you wanted him to live. Doesn’t he deserve THAT?!”

“Stop!” John interrupted us. “Stop talking about me like I’m not standing right here!” John eyed us both. “Get out, Mycroft. Close the door.”

Mycroft hesitated. 

“Do get out!” I snapped. 

“You have one hour – if John is here any longer, it’s suspicious.”

The second the door shut, John was in my arms. He was warm and solid and wonderful and I wanted nothing but to live in his embrace forever.

“I am going to fucking kill you.” He whispered. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?!”

“I love you.” I said. I covered his mouth with my own and floated on his kisses.

“Stop it now.” John said, sounding reluctant but firm. “Stop.” He stepped away from me and it took everything I had not to follow and wrap my arms around him again.

There were tears on his face. He was shaking.

“John…” 

“No.” He said. “Tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

“Moriarty.” I said simply.

“Moriarty’s dead! Unless that’s a lie too.”

“No, Moriarty IS dead. But his organization... it has to be dismantled.”

John threw up his hands. “None of this explains why you JUMPED OFF A FUCKING BUILDING!”

“If his organization believes I’m dead, they won’t see me coming. I can take it apart. John, you know how dangerous Moriarty was. Everything he left behind is just as dangerous. It has to be dismantled.”

“Fine. Great. But how is it your responsibility?!”

“I know how Moriarty thinks. Thought. I’m the only one that CAN do this. John... please believe me, I wish there were some other way. But there... there isn’t. I was followed – WE were followed everywhere. Dying was the only way to... to get them to let down their guard. They would have killed you, John. If I hadn’t agreed to take myself out of their way in the most permanent way possible, they would have killed you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do! Moriarty told me exactly that. I die or you die. Of course I jumped off the building.”

John shook his head. “Obviously you knew it was coming. You planned for it, came up with some way to fake your own suicide.”

“Yes.”

“SO WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!? How could you let me think you’d really done it?!”

“Your reaction, it had to be authentic. They were watching. Any hint that it wasn’t real would have doomed us both. I Didn’t WANT to keep it from you, John. I didn’t want to do it at all! I wanted to stay with YOU – It’s not fair that I have to leave you! I’ve never been happier...”

John wrapped his arms around me again and I wept against his chest. He pulled me onto the long, leather couch and kissed my forehead. I turned my face upward and he kissed my mouth. I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him – it was oxygen, it was water. It was life itself.

“I’ll come with you.” John said.

I hid my face on his shoulder, slipping my arms around his neck. “You can’t.” I told him.

“I can. You need someone watching your back.”

“You can’t.” I repeated. “If you disappeared, they’d know I was alive.”

John held me for a long minute. I knew he was going over and over it in his mind, trying to find the out that I couldn’t find. He slumped a little and I knew he’d realised there was no way out of this. No way that kept us both breathing. Presuming I could survive infiltrating Moriarty’s organization.

“What are we going to do?” John asked.

“You’re going to stay here.” I said. “And keep my secret. I’m going abroad for... for however long it takes.”

“How long?” 

“I don’t know. Nine months... a year? Maybe longer.”

“Then you’ll come back?”

“If I can.”

“Don’t talk like that. Just tell me, when you’ve finished with Moriarty’s people, you’ll come back.”

“I will.”

“OK. Good.”

“John... I can’t ask you to wait for me.”

“But you can’t stop me, either.” 

“We can’t have any contact – I can’t write or call. I can’t text. Email. Nothing. I might as well be dead.”

John squeezed me, his strong arms flexing. It was comforting despite everything. “But you aren’t.” He murmured. “You aren’t dead. And you’ll come back. You’ll come back to me.”

I tried to stifle a sob. “I will, John. As soon as I can.”

We held each other on Mycroft’s big, leather couch. John kissed my tears away. I didn’t tell him where I was going and he didn’t ask, we talked instead of when we’d be together again.

“It’ll be hard.” I said. “Contrary to popular opinion, absence does not make the heart grow fonder.”

“Are you saying that you’ll forget me?” John asked.

I looked at him in astonishment. “No! I will never...”

John shushed me. “I know, my love. I know you’ll come back to me. And I will be here.”

I sighed with relief. “Knowing that you’re here, that you’re safe and... thinking of me...”

A knock on the door interrupted me. Mycroft stepped in. 

“John.” He said. “It’s time to go.”

I sagged. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing afresh. It was too soon. It would always be too soon. John felt it, he held me more tightly. “It’s OK.” He whispered in my ear. “I know you’re alive and I know you’ll be back.”

I nodded. Shaking, I forced myself to sit up. John stood and pulled me to my feet. He kissed me. “You know, I watched soldiers saying goodbye to their wives and girlfriends before we shipped out... despite the war, I always thought they had the bad end of the stick. I never imagined I’d be in their place.”

I kissed him again. “I’m so sorry to put you in this position.” I said.

“It could be worse.” John said. “I could think you’re dead.”

I laughed bitterly, clinging to him.

“Gentlemen.” Mycroft said.

John, proving again he was the stronger of the two of us, kissed me one more time then stepped back, pulling my arms from around him. He looked at me intensely for a moment longer then turned and followed Mycroft out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, John waits.


	8. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John waits – and waits – for Sherlock to come home.

JOHN

Mycroft eyed me with poorly disguised anger and frustration. 

“John, you do appreciate the importance of keeping this secret?”

“Of course!” I insisted, though I barely knew what I was saying. My insides buzzed.

“You cannot say one word.”

“I know.”

“And you cannot change your demeanor. You must be just as pathetic as when you walked in here.”

“I get it!” I gritted. “Stop treating me like an idiot.” I needed to get away from Mycroft – I needed to go back into the library with Sherlock! But I knew I couldn’t, so I needed to get out of Mycroft’s fucking house.

“John, my brother’s life LITERALLY depends on your ability to convince everyone that you are mourning his death.”

“I realise that. I can do it!”

“I hope so. For both your sakes.”

I turned to go, desperately needing to get away, but Mycroft tutted. “Forgetting something?” He held out the annuity documents.

I opened my mouth to protest, but his expression stopped me. For the sake of expedience, I took the paperwork.

Then I left Mycroft’s house, waving away his car. I wanted to walk. I needed to be alone with my thoughts.

Sherlock was alive! 

He was alive!

There was a giddiness to my thoughts that I recognized was potentially dangerous, a tang of hysteria. Simultaneously my brain exulted in the knowledge that this man I loved so much was not dead, not lost to me irrevocably, AND half-believed I had been hallucinating.

After all, I had nothing except my memory, unreliable memory, to prove to myself that what I wanted most was true.

I wanted SO MUCH for Sherlock to be alive... had I manufactured a barely plausible scenario for myself? Had I gone insane?

I remembered perfectly the feel of him in my arms, his weight against my chest, the texture of his cropped black hair, shorn of curls, the scent of some foreign soap on his skin...

The way he’d looked at me: terrified and hopeful, in love and in desperate need. He NEEDED me to believe in him. He was walking into untold danger... 

My bunkmate in Kandahar, he was married. He carried a photo of his wife everywhere. Just the idea of her at home, waiting for him, believing in him, kept him level. He did what he had to do without hesitation or complaint and he did it well. He told me once that that was the man she thought he was. He tried to live up to that every day. He became the man she believed in.

I WOULD believe in Sherlock. With all of my being. And he WOULD come home.

Bloody Sherlock! How did I turn into the wife!?

 

—-

 

It wasn’t difficult to feign grief at Sherlock’s supposed passing – I missed him terribly.

Unlike an Army spouse, I had no contact with him. Everyone thought he was dead and I had nothing to contradict them – no notes or texts or any of the things one might get from a loved one abroad.

As days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, my jubilation at finding him alive faded. Despite myself, I wondered again if I’d imagined the reunion with Sherlock. Depression overtook me once more. Food and drink held no interest for me. Spending time with mates was a chore. Christmas was especially difficult – all the decorations and carols, all the excitement and good cheer. Instead of exchanging gifts with the man I loved, I avoided people I knew and went to the cinema alone.

Sherlock’s birthday followed soon after. I took the day off work and visited his grave. It felt silly, but it also felt like a link to him, however tenuous.

But, knowing Sherlock hadn’t died, I was more functional. After that hour with Sherlock, I was able pull myself together and find a job. I stayed in the Baker Street flat – it was no longer oppressive to be there, I liked being surrounded by his things. I liked knowing that eventually he would come home. Between my paycheck, army pension and Sherlock’s annuity, I had no problem affording it.

I waited. I worked out at the gym. I watched rugby. I went to the firing range. I worked extra shifts. I read the paper. I kept myself to myself.

In the Spring, Lestrade called and asked me to meet him at the Starved Sparrow for a pint. I toyed with turning him down, but ultimately I went. 

“It’s good to see you, Greg.”

“John! You’re looking great.”

I made a face. “Better than the last time you saw me, anyway.”

Lestrade shrugged good-naturedly and signaled the bartender.

We drank. It WAS good to see him. As he brought back our third round, Greg nudged me.

“She’s checking you out, mate.” He said, tilting his head towards a pretty redhead who smiled when I looked over. “What?”

I shut my eyes and repressed a shudder. “Nothing... it’s just... too soon.” I felt Greg’s hand on my back and was transported back to kneeling in the gutter, retching, after Sherlock had jumped. When I thought he’d died.

“I have to admit...” Lestrade said contemplatively. “I was surprised that you two... but at the same time it made sense.”

“Heh.” I let out the puff of air explosively, relieved he wasn’t pushing the bird. “I was surprised too – I wasn’t lying about being straight. I’d never even considered... but after I discovered how he felt, how he really felt – he was so convinced it was impossible.... but suddenly it didn’t seem so impossible. I had time to get used to the idea... and it worked! It was so... intense. I’ve never had a relationship like it.” I sighed. “I don’t know when I’ll be interested in...” I glanced at the woman. “...someone again.”

“John.” Lestrade said sadly. “He’s gone.”

I shut my eyes tightly, but was mortified when a tear escaped anyway. Even knowing Sherlock was alive, he wasn’t HERE. He was gone and I had no idea when he’d be back. Or who he’d be when he came back. “I know, Greg.”

We were silent for a while, caught up in our own thoughts. “I miss the wanker.” Lestrade said. “Not only because I have a case or two I could use his help with... I miss getting texts demanding a good case, or failing that, the oldest, knottiest cold cases I’ve got. I miss him barging onto a murder scene, insulting the techs, belittling my detectives. I miss his incredible leaps in logic that somehow not only made sense, but most of the time were true. I miss him deferring to you. –“

“Sherlock never deferred to me.” I protested.

“He deferred to you all the time, John! Any time you thought he was being rude – anything he didn’t understand, courtesy, common customs – you were the ONLY person he’d listen to.”

“Oh.” Suddenly I felt weighed down, defeated. I’d thought being with someone else who missed him would lighten the load, but it was having the opposite effect. I went home soon after.

Sometime after that, one of my coworkers at the clinic – Dr. Manapoori – looked me up and down in the little break room. “I could prescribe you an antidepressant.” She said.

I blinked in surprise. “Why?”

“It’s been over a year since your friend passed.” She said. “You are beyond grief. You are depressed.”

“I’m not...” I started.

“You do not eat. You do not smile. You do not take an interest in your fellows. You do not bother with sports or hobbies. You look tired as if you do not sleep.” She enumerated. “I’d want to do a little blood work first, of course.”

“I, erm, I’ll think about it.” I said. I was taken aback that she knew about Sherlock. And more so that she was paying attention to me, noting my affect.

But the feeling that lasted was distress – Sherlock had been gone for almost fourteen months! What was he doing? Was he undercover? Was he in danger? Was he even alive? I worried about him constantly.

This is the state I was in when Mycroft contacted me. 

He’d summoned me previously via public phone via cash machine and once via text. The last time I saw him, he simply sent his car to fetch me. This time he called. On my phone.

“John, I need you to come by at some point, I need your signature on some financial documents.”

“Didn’t we already do that?” I asked, irritably. I wasn’t irritated, I was desperate to know if he’d heard anything from Sherlock. But I knew Mycroft’s paranoia about people listening in.

“There’s more.” He said simply. 

I sighed. “Fine. When?” Today, I thought! Face-to-face I could question him at length. He had to tell me something!

“Next week.” Mycroft said. “I’d do it sooner but I’m working on something for the Vatican right now and it can’t wait. A priceless cameo of Pope Pius II has turned up in England, and I’m seeing to its safe return.”

“That’s... erm, interesting.” I said, my whole body tingling with excitement. “So... next week?”

“Yes. Tuesday, I think. Four p.m. I’ll send the car to the usual place.”

“Erm... yeah. Yeah, I’ll make that work.”

“And John? Don’t bring anything this time. It’s, erm, not necessary.”

“Oh, erm, ok. Yeah.”

“I’ll see you next week.” Mycroft intoned. “Goodbye.”

Vatican cameos! Mycroft had spoken Sherlock’s code – our code! Was Sherlock in danger!? Is that what Mycroft was telling me? Did Mycroft need me to help him? 

Whatever he needed, I would do! 

Just the chance that I might see Sherlock – I was beside myself. I tried to hold my feelings in check. If it turned out that I wasn’t going to see him... or worse, that something had happened... maybe Mycroft would tell me that I’d never see him again...

But no, Mycroft would have approached me differently if Sherlock had died... he wouldn’t give me this kind of hope.

At the very least, Mycroft had news, information about Sherlock. Maybe even a message! I couldn’t wait to find out!

If I had interpreted him correctly, I had to get to Chinatown by 4 p.m. – and make sure to lose anyone keeping tabs on me. 

Was the sniper still out there? Was he watching me? Could he see me right now in the crosshairs of his rifle’s scope? 

Nervously, I pulled the shades.

Then I got down to it. First things first, I covered my ginger hair with a black watch cap. Then I rummaged through my closet upstairs for my old green army coat – the black donkey coat I usually wore was too easy to spot. 

The biggest problem was my gait. I know I have a distinctive way of moving. I had to disguise that somehow. I wish it was as easy as affecting a limp, but somehow that made me move MORE like myself. Especially after fracturing my hip and gimping around London for two months. They certainly had that uploaded for comparison. Arg.

I left through the alley, careful not to jostle the bins, and – whilst attempting to look about surreptitiously to spot a tail – painstakingly walked heel-to-toe in as straight a line as possible. I hoped a finicky walk would be enough.

It took more concentration than one would expect to keep up such an unfamiliar way of moving. I had renewed respect for Sherlock’s ability to disguise himself. 

I walked mincingly for ten blocks, circling back on myself twice. Then I spotted a cab in a narrow side street. I darted down the alley and jumped in the cab. Keeping my head low, I asked to be taken to Picadily Circus.

Normally, I’d stay as far as possible from the crowded, tourist-riddled intersection, but today I wanted the crowds. One thing being shorter is good for: disappearing in a crowd. I leapt from the cab onto the teaming sidewalks. I let myself be carried along until I saw one of the big purveyors of cheap fashion and ducked in. I stood, invisible, between the teeming racks for ten minutes, watching the door. I didn’t make anyone who might be looking for me.

I took off the green army coat and rolled it into a ball and carried it up to the men’s department. There I bought a plain black rucksack and a navy overcoat.

Back on the street, I made my way through the congestion to the Underground. I changed trains – and lines – six times, searching for anyone familiar from Picadily or any of the transfers. As far as I could tell, I was clear.

I started towards Chinatown.

 

——

 

Mycroft was in the car that picked me up, but the car itself was not familiar. It was a silver Mercedes with tinted glass and a silently watchful driver with the bulge in his jacket I associated with a shoulder holster.

“New car?” I asked as I clicked my seatbelt closed.

“I had to make certain I wasn’t followed as well, John.” He replied. “Put this on.” He held out a black sleep mask.

“Is that really necessary?” 

Mycroft gave me a look. “If you don’t know where Sherlock is, you can’t reveal it.”

Excitement bloomed within me anew – Sherlock was here! I was going to see him! “The less I know the better.” I said trying to control my excitement as I donned the eye covering.

“Indeed.”

I bit back the thousand questions I wanted to ask. We rode in silence. I lost track of time, but I was alert in the knowledge that soon I would get what I wanted most.

Finally the car stopped. “Don’t take the mask off.” Mycroft said. “Hector will lead you.”

I sighed, feeling put-upon, but I appreciated how careful he was being with Sherlock’s safety. And my own, I guessed.

It smelled and sounded like we were in a subterranean parking garage. There were no sounds from the street and our footsteps echoed. Hector held my arm and I went where he guided me. Into a lift. My ears popped as we rose – it was a short ride, but I thought, a fast one. Hector led me out of the lift. Our feet made no noise on the thick carpet. I heard a key in a lock, then I was pushed through a doorway. The door closed behind me. 

“You can take it off now.” Mycroft said. “And your shoes.”

We were in a small tiled hall. In front of me was a step up onto wood floors. There were slippers on the step. Through an open doorway I saw tatami mats. I took off my shoes, stepping carefully into the wood floor in my socks.

Sherlock was in a traditional Japanese home?

“Go away, Mycroft.” It was Sherlock’s voice! 

“I’ve brought you something.” Mycroft answered. “Something you want.”

“Finally! You brought my mi –“ Sherlock broke off as he rounded the corner and saw me. “John.” He said softly. “John!”

He stood frozen before me, tall and gaunt in a kimono-style robe, the sash emphasizing how very narrow his waist had become. His head was covered in dark fuzz, an angry red scar visible above his left ear. He looked exhausted. He reached out and his hand trembled.

I understood in a flash – Sherlock was injured, suffering post-traumatic stress. He was hiding out in London trying to convalesce. 

And I was here to help.

I stepped forward and pulled him into my arms. I heard Mycroft shut and lock the door as he left.

Sherlock was warm and solid in my embrace. I inhaled deeply, the scent of his skin wonderfully familiar. “John!” He whispered and I was overcome with love for him. I kissed him. For a second it seemed as if he’d forgotten how, but then he melted into it, opening up for me with a shuddering sigh.

“Darling... my darling...” I murmured and his hands gripped me fiercely. The taste of him! I’d forgotten what his kisses did to me. In spite of my worry for his well-being, my cock was taking notice. 

I caressed his face – there were new wrinkles around his eyes, on his forehead. I traced one with my thumb. He shied away from my examination, burying his face in my neck. “It’s ok, love.” I assured him, petting the stubbly fuzz on his head. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“John...” Sherlock whispered again, and I knew how very much he’d missed me too. “You’re really here.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t forgotten me.”

“Of course not, love. I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”

“I’ve been so afraid...”

“Of what, my love?”

“That you’d grown tired of waiting.”

“It’s hard, I won’t lie. But I’ll wait as long as I have to for you to come home, Sherlock.”

“John, do you mean it?” He sounded so lost.

“Yes!”

I kissed him, relearning his mouth – lush bottom lip, teeth, searching tongue, faint stubble on his cheek, the outrageous divot that defined his upper lip... 

Sherlock blossomed, gained animation and vibrancy. He nipped my bottom lip in the way he knew drove me wild. His hands grew bold, rubbing my back, gripping my arse, stroking my chest and my thighs, and finally ghosting across my awakening cock.

I pushed him – more gently than usual – against the wall and ground my hips against his, feeling his arousal mirroring my own. 

I cupped his face as I kissed him. I pushed my fingers up remembering his beautiful curls ... his stubbly hair was coarse and strange, muscle memory wanting to fist a handful of black waves. 

Sherlock kissed me hard and palmed my cock through my jeans, the pressure divine. I moaned, letting him grope me. Then my fingers found the raised scar over his ear, traced it. I pulled back from our kiss. “Wait.” I said, pressing my hips into his hand despite myself. “Sherlock... we should –“

“This first.” His words gusted by my ear making my hair stand on end with desire. “John, I need you... I need to feel you...”

I needed to feel him too. I pressed him against the wall with my entire body, kissing his neck, his clavicle, his chin, his mouth. I pulled at his kimono, my hand ranging up his thigh. I touched him, he was hard and leaking in my hand. 

“Where’s your bed?” I asked, our kisses urgent.

Sherlock scoffed – a short laugh against my cheek. “In there.” He said.

I pulled him through the doorway into a completely empty room, tatami mats covered the floor, rice paper covered the panes of the window. There was an open archway with sliding doors to another room, this one with a low table and four legless chairs on the tatami. One corner of the room had an almost invisible black sink set in a black countertop next to a cupboard with sliding doors. The only thing on the counter was an electric kettle and a black teapot. There was a bowl of fruit on the table. I looked at Sherlock questioningly.

“In here.” He said. I realised that one entire wall of the empty room had closed sliding doors. Sherlock pulled one back to reveal a rolled futon and linens.

“A futon?” I felt dismayed – I hadn’t slept on a futon since Uni, but I remembered how uncomfortable I had found it.

Sherlock shrugged, reading my discomfort easily. But he evaded my eyes.

“Hey.” I said, pulling him back into my arms. “It’s ok – I’m here with YOU, Sherlock! Nothing else matters.” He shuddered – there were tears in his eyes. I rubbed the back of his neck, soothingly, as he pressed his face into my shoulder.

He sighed, breathed deeply. “John... I’ve always loved this jumper.” He inhaled a lungful of wool.

“Help me get this thing set up.” I said, cursing the Japanese internally – or rather whoever had stuck Sherlock in a Japanese flat. There wasn’t even a couch, not even an upholstered chair in which to relax. There was nothing but mats on the floor and a table and chairs so low I felt my knees ache just looking at them. I prayed there was a western toilet.

Sherlock nodded, pulling himself together. We grabbed the corners of the futon and laid it out in the center of the room. It was the size of a twin bed and only a few inches thick. 

I returned to the closet – there were three more rolled futons. I pulled another out and dragged it on top of the first.

“That’s not how –“ Sherlock began.

“I don’t care.” I said, smiling at him. I pulled the third out and stacked it and then the fourth. I spread a bright white sheet over them, tucking it in with military precision, then tossed a white duvet and several white pillows on top. 

Sherlock watched silently, trying to hide the tremors in his hands. What had happened to him?

I stripped off my jumper, laying it on the bed, a mossy green island on the bright white, and sat down next to it. Even four thick it was low, as low as a mattress on the floor. I patted the futon. “Come here.” I said.

Sherlock sat next to me, his long legs extending spiderishly, and I saw again how gaunt he’d become. 

“Where were we?” I asked, cupping his jaw to kiss him. He was passionate – fiercely so – and I felt myself responding quickly. It was heaven just to touch him again, to run my hands over his chest, down his thigh, to kiss the shell of his ear and feel his shiver of delight. I pushed him down onto his back, rolling on top of him.

“John, wait.” Sherlock said, pushing me away, trying to sit up again. 

“Sherlock...” I kissed his mouth deeply. 

“No, John...”

I didn’t want to stop. But I pulled myself back. Sherlock’s face was shadowed with misery.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned. I touched his cheek. “Sherlock?”

“John... I have to tell you something...”

“It can wait.” I said, my arms encircling his slender form. “After.” I kissed his neck, his jaw, his collarbone. He was warm and familiar in my arms and happiness surged in my chest.

“No... I wanted... it has to be now.” 

I sat back, controlling myself. “Ok.” I said. I was starting to dread what he would say.

“I’m sorry... John, I’ve ... I’ve been with someone else.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in and then it took everything in me not to pull away from him. Sherlock felt the tension in my body regardless and his misery increased. He moved to stand up, but I held him more tightly.

“Tell me.” I said. “Tell me what happened.” He’d met someone, someone like handsome Officer Vaachaspati. Sherlock had cruised him, picked him up and had sex with him. He’d been lonely and old habits... the certainty sat like lead in my stomach.

Officer Vaachaspati had warned me that I would never be enough for Sherlock – that no single man could be enough. “My boyfriend and I tag-teamed him.” Vaachaspati had said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Sherlock was insatiable, we had to get the neighbor in... if I’d set up a proper gang-bang, he’d have taken on everyone and begged for more.” 

I hadn’t believed him...

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Sherlock said softly. 

I forced myself to meet his gaze. “No?” I asked. I wondered if I could forgive him. I had been so lonely without him...

Sherlock pulled away from me. This time I let him. “I’ve been undercover, infiltrating one of Moriarty’s cells – one of the biggest.” He said. “I had to... I needed to be accepted by the other men... trusted...“ 

“Ok.” I said. I distanced myself from the hurt. I wondered coldly where this was going. Had he seduced the boss? Taken advantage of a crush one of the villains had had?

“She was a prostitute.” I could barely hear his voice – and I was surprised enough that I almost didn’t hear his next words. “There were other men in the room – she... serviced... us all.” Sherlock grimaced. “Do you understand? I couldn’t protest... I couldn’t make excuses... I needed to be one of them...”

“A prostitute...” I echoed stupidly.

“She... I couldn’t think about her – I couldn’t even look at her! She... she made me sad... there was nothing about her that I found appealing in the least.

“But I had to... perform... successfully.” Sherlock shut his eyes tightly against the memory, covered his face with his hands. “I let her blow me. I did whatever I could to get excited... to stay excited... to get it over with quickly.... I thought about men I’d lusted after, men who’d sucked me off, put them in her place... I did everything but think of you. John, I couldn’t have you in that horrible room.

“Afterwards, she moved on to the next bloke. I wanted to leave... get in the shower and scrub her – scrub all of them – off me. But I couldn’t. I had to stay.

“I... I’m sorry...” Sherlock’s voice broke. “John, I’m sorry.”

“Sherlock.” I reached out – it seemed like a great distance despite sitting right next to him – and rubbed his back. “Sherlock, that’s not cheating. That’s surviving.”

I meant it. I felt so vastly relieved that my trust in him had not been betrayed... I almost felt jubilant.

His back was tense and I could feel him shaking. “Love, if that’s what you’re feeling badly about – don’t. If you need me to forgive you, I forgive you. In fact, you have my blessing to do whatever you need to do to come back to me in one piece. I don’t care if you fuck your way across three continents, as long as you come home.”

“You’d care if I fucked my way across three continents.” Sherlock observed, smiling faintly. I appreciated that his sense of humor was returning.

“I would care if you sought out sex with someone else, yeah.” I said seriously. “But if it’s part of the job, something you have to do to stay alive, I understand. Just... just be safe. Yeah?”

Sherlock turned back to me and let me caress his jaw – he leaned into my hand. “I wouldn’t seek it out. John, I don’t want anyone else.”

I kissed him. He was pliant under my touch. Once again I laid him down on the futon, stretching out next to him, kissing him, caressing him. I felt his hardness beneath my hand.

I tore the kimono open, untying the belt and unwinding it. Sherlock pulled me onto his chest and we kissed again and again. His mouth on my neck, my breastbone, my earlobe. He tried to unbutton my shirt, but he couldn’t get his fingers between us whilst he kissed me. He looked at me helplessly, unwilling to give up either task.

I laughed and sat up, grinding down on him to quell his protests. I unbuttoned quickly, just the top few and my cuffs, and pulled shirt and vest over my head together.

Sherlock’s elegant hands ranged over my chest, running his fingers through the ginger fur – I knew he liked it, he had his hands in it whenever he could. He traced my abdomen with one finger.

“You’ve lost weight.” He said.

“You’re one to talk.” I said, pulling his hand up to my nipple. 

“I’ve been working... I didn’t expect you to lose so much.” He rubbed my nipple between his fingers and I moaned.

“I’ve missed you.” I said. Then to rid my throat of the lump, I teased him. “I didn’t know you were a chubby chaser.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’ve never been chubby.”

I caressed him, my hands on his chest and neck then up into his hair. I missed his unruly curls, missed the way it felt to comb my fingers through them, to grab a fistful.

“It’ll grow.” Sherlock said, reading me perfectly.

“Yeah.” I took him in hand and jacked him, running my thumb over the head and smearing the dampness down his shaft. 

I stopped. “What happened to your ring?” I asked. His big stainless steel ring no longer pierced the head of his cock. 

“Oh... I took it out. Both piercings. They’re... too gay... for the person I needed to be undercover.”

I pushed the kimono off his chest and sure enough, the barbell was gone from his nipple – though it’s large hole was clearly visible.

I felt unaccountably sad. I leaned over and carefully kissed the bereft nipple, taking it in my mouth for a long moment. 

“You miss them.” Sherlock observed with some confusion.

“I do.”

“I can get new ones when all this is over.”

I nodded and fondled his cock with intention. I was done fooling around.

Sherlock gasped and clutched at my arms. Then his hands discovered a purpose in opening my jeans. He pulled my cock out of my pants and levered himself up onto an elbow to rub his cock against mine. I wrapped my hand around us both and Sherlock did as well, though there was barely enough room for the both of us.

I kissed him, rubbing his prick. His lips were crimson from my previous attentions, so I bit them. I kissed his chin, his throat, the indent above his scapula. I wanted to make love to every part of him.

I kissed my way down his ivory chest, tonguing his nipples – making his breath hitch and whimper – nipping his belly and mouthing down the line of dark hair below his navel. I inhaled deeply, loving the heady smell of Sherlock’s arousal.

“You’re mine.” I told him, licking across the head of his cock, tasting the bitter sap. “You belong to me – don’t forget that when you’re away.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but I went down on him, taking his prick deep and he moaned instead, his head falling back.

“You’re mine, love, and there’s only one thing you can say about that.” I jacked his prick, the pink head emerging from his foreskin then almost disappearing again. “Only one thing you can say: ‘Yes, John.’” 

Sherlock gasped as I took him in my mouth again. “Yes, John!” He moaned. “Oh! Yessss, Johnnnn....”

I was terribly out of practice, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. I applied myself, my hand meeting my lips every other stroke, nuzzling his sac, taking each testicle in my mouth. He spread his legs wide as I returned to his cock, tonguing his slit then swallowing him down. I brushed my fingers down his perineum, ghosting across his hole and he groaned aloud.

“John! I... I...”

I rubbed my knuckles against the bud of muscle and he thrashed, pressing himself against my hand.

I felt his hands on my head and shoulders. “Stop, I’m too close.”

I smiled at him. “Isn’t that the point?”

“I need you, John, all of you.”

He was so deadly serious all of a sudden. I stopped teasing his prick and kissed him, leaning forward and overbalancing. He caught me against his chest, clinging to me almost like a child.

I kissed him again, he tasted himself in my mouth and kissed me more deeply. “Do you have lube?” I asked.

Sherlock paused a moment. “Wait here.” I admired his lithe form as he crossed the room and rummaged through the cabinets by the sink. Even too thin, his movements were elegant and his arse pert and shapely.

I shucked off my jeans and pants, pulling the duvet over me to ward off the chill.

Sherlock was back and climbing under with me a few seconds later. “What is that?” I asked.

He opened the can with a sheepish smile, revealing a white substance with deep spoonfuls carved out of it. “Shortening.” He said. “It’s a bit old school. It went out of fashion when condoms became necessary – more necessary. The oil breaks down the latex. And water-based lubricants aren’t such a bother to clean up. But it works.”

It did indeed work. My fingers slid into him with pleasurable ease. I could tell that he was no longer used to the intrusion, I went slowly, fondling his hard prick, letting him relax as I worked him open. 

I kissed his knee – I had one arm wrapped around his bent leg as I frigged him – and smiled down at him. 

“You’re beautiful.” I told him. Sherlock smiled back shyly. I thought about all the sex we’d had – it was only four months, but it was four very active months. We’d begun exploring dominance and submission together. I’d realised I had a liking for it – more than a liking, it satisfied something deep inside me that I’d always denied.

I’d thought a lot about it while Sherlock was away, what it meant about me that I enjoyed dominating him sexually so very much... I’d come to the conclusion that at essence it was about taking care of him. He wanted to submit – isn’t that what he’d been doing with Officer Vaachaspati and the other men? Performing acts of submission? Perhaps it satisfied him on the same deep level that taking control satisfied me, but he needed someone who would never take advantage of that desire, someone who would always put his safety and his satiety first. Someone who adored him.

I was in control now. But now, right now, that wasn’t about tying him up or spanking him, humiliating him, any of that – it was about making him feel completely loved and cared for.

That was the thought in my head as I entered him – that I could erase the uncertainty from his eyes with this act. I moved slowly, letting him fully adjust to my girth. When I was fully seated within him, I leaned over and caressed his face. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” I said, and kissed him deeply. He clung to me, held me tight as I began to move, sodding him deliberately. 

Sherlock gasped and moaned, my cock giving him pleasure. He wrapped his legs around my waist, his toes curling. I propped myself up on my elbows and he caressed my arms and torso as I fucked him. 

“John... ohhh...”

I kissed him, softly, sweetly. He moaned, his need radiating, filling the room. Filling me.

“I have you, love.” I told him, snapping my hips so he felt it. “I have you now. You’re here with me.” I moved faster against him now, harder. “I won’t let you go, Sherlock. Not ever.”

“Yes, John!” Sherlock stared up at me, our eyes locked. I was starting to sweat with the effort and our bodies slid together. I felt his prick between us and reached a hand down, jacked him as I fucked him. Watching his face was beautiful, seeing the play of pleasure, of emotion, on his features. His eyes were dark with arousal, his lips parted, and I saw it, I saw the exact moment he gave in to me, trusted that I could keep him safe. That he could let go, because I had him. His orgasm began, washing over him, through him. I felt it in his body, the tightening, the shuddering wracking his entire being. His prick jumped in my hand and his seed wet my fingers, wet our bodies as I continued to move. “John! Yesss... John...” He cried.

I fucked him through his climax, making certain the angle scraped my cock over his prostate with every thrust, until I felt his muscles ease. He lay back in repose, lazy with physical satisfaction. Only then did I carefully pull out and, kneeling over him, stroke myself until I came, adding my emissions to his own.

I kissed Sherlock’s face, tasting salt. “Don’t move.” I ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

I left him spread out on the futon and made my way to the bathroom. I stopped momentarily to admire it – futons are shite (how I wished for a mattress with some spring beneath us when we fucked), but the Japanese don’t skimp on cleanliness – then I wet a flannel with a sinfully high thread count and grabbed an equally sinful towel. 

I wiped the mess off Sherlock’s torso and cleaned up as much of the shortening as I could.  
Then I wiped shortening from my own cock and hands – it was greasy and stubborn and I quickly gave up on it and spread the towel beneath us. 

Later we would have to use the room-sized bathing chamber, but right now I wanted Sherlock to rest. He curled up into my arms and I gently pet his fuzzy head until his breathing evened out and he shuddered gently into sleep.

I lay there holding my true love, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next – What has Sherlock done?


	9. Shame and Self-Loathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is haunted by the things he has been forced to do.

SHERLOCK 

I passed from sleep to wakefulness with nothing in between, dismayed that I’d let my guard down, that I’d slept so soundly.

I reached for my knife – but it wasn’t there!

As I lay there, tense and terrified, I became aware of several things at once: I could smell biscuits baking; a light was on in the next room; I wasn’t alone.

Then I remembered – John! I was in a safe house in London and John was here! I laid back in relief. It took a moment to calm my breathing, to flush the adrenaline from my system.

That’s how I had slept. John was here. I trusted him to have my back – there was no one I trusted more.

I closed my eyes. John hadn’t left when I told him about the prostitute – I had expected him to. He hadn’t even gotten angry. He... he understood. He still loved me. I could barely believe it – I knew I didn’t deserve it. 

I couldn’t tell him about Magnussen. I couldn’t bear how he would look at me if he knew.

Selfishly, I had not wanted to tell him anything, or at least I thought I could wait to tell him, put off the difficult conversation as long as possible. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be intimate with him with infidelity on my conscience.

“You’re awake.”

I opened my eyes again and John stood in the doorway. John, my miracle.

John, who I had abandoned. And betrayed.

“Clearly.”

John smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and my heart swelled in my chest painfully. There was more silver threading through his copper hair, a hint more care in the lines on his face, but otherwise he looked very much the same in his jeans and jumper. But I knew underneath he was leaner, more muscular – obviously he’d been spending a lot of time working out. As much as I regretted that he’d HAD the time, (and as much as I missed the soft bit of padding over his abdomen) the thought of his hard body made my mouth water. I hadn’t thought I could find him MORE attractive...

“I can have dinner ready in fifteen minutes.” John said, leaning over to kiss me. “If you’re hungry. But I was thinking of getting in the shower first...” He scratched at his ribs. “Still feeling a bit greasy – you’re welcome to join me.”

“Yes.” I said, sitting up. “I would like a wash.” I smiled back at him and accepted the hand he extended to pull me upright.

I expected the shower to be sexual – it was when we’d bathed together at home. And this shower was decadent, it was an entire room, jade green marble with a strip of mirrors at chest height. A drain in the floor that was subtly tilted so water wouldn’t pool or spill out the glass door. Three shower heads, a large one over our heads, two others that were moveable. There was also steam, if one wanted it, and a soaking tub to one side that I had enjoyed my first night here. 

John stripped off quickly and started experimenting with the knobs and levers for the right balance of heat and spray. I joined him, enjoying his pleasure as he immersed himself in the hot water. I loved how he looked, wet and gleaming, the small muscles of his abdomen flexing and shifting as he wiped water out of his eyes.

He smiled at me – not for the first time, I felt bewildered that this amazing person loved ME. John could so easily find someone better than the skinny, irritating, arrogant detective who had left him alone for the last year.

Who had done such terrible things.

John pulled me under the shower head with him, wrapping his arms around me. He held me for a long moment, then he began washing me, rubbing soap over my back and arse, turning me around to scrub my legs. His hands traveled up my body, sudsing my belly and chest, under my arms, over my shoulders and down to my hands. He paused there, examining the fading bruises on my knuckles. But then he let go and soaped my prick and bollocks with clinical care, smirking as my prick responded to his touch.

John didn’t linger there. He tugged me under the shower again, rinsing me thoroughly. He had me sit on the edge of the tub and poured a dollop of shampoo from the tiny bottle that came with the shower. He lathered my stubbled fuzz, tracing the cut over my ear with his fingers. He was extremely gentle, and I knew he saw that it was still bruised and a little swollen. 

“You had the stitches out... two days ago?” John asked offhandedly.

“Three.” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

John rinsed the shampoo from my fuzz then began soaping his own torso. For a moment I watched his strong, deft hands rubbing soap into the ginger hair down the center of his chest. God, I wished I were doing it for him, as he’d done for me. 

But then he smirked up at me, steel in his gaze, and I kept my hands to myself.

“What happened here?” John asked abruptly, his fingers on my ribs.

“Oh. It’s nothing.” 

His hand pressed against the ugly scar. “It was infected.” John said. “Rather haphazardly stitched up. Did you do it yourself?”

“Yes.” I said turning my face up into the spray. John’s concern was, as always, disconcerting. 

“I should have been there.” He said and his lips bussed the scar.

“There’s nothing you could have done.” I said, my hand finding his shoulder.

“I could have stitched it properly.” John said. “I could have kept it from getting infected.”

“That would have been very helpful, actually.”

John’s laugh was strangled as he wrapped his arms around me. I grasped him back, wanting only for our embrace to last forever.

 

—-

 

John fried streaky bacon on the little stovetop that lived behind the sliding cupboard door. I meditated on the wisdom of storing heating elements behind bamboo and paper panels as John toasted bread and sliced tomatoes. 

I was sitting on one of the legless chairs, stretching my own legs under the low table and out the other side. I had put Puccini on the record player in the corner, I didn’t have my violin – hadn’t in over a year – so I was settling for listening to opera. I wished I couldn’t understand the Italian, it would have been more enjoyable...

John was a little like Princess Turandot. I had won his heart, despite his many protests that no man ever would, just as suddenly and inexplicably as Calaf had won hers. Puccini died before finishing Turandot. Would his ending have made more sense? Could that have illuminated John’s unexpected change of heart for me?

I watched him at the stove, his arse outlined nicely by the kimono-style dressing gown he wore. He’d painstakingly rolled up the long sleeves to keep them out of the frying pan.

John had placed a plate of still-warm ginger biscuits (that he had baked (!) in the little toaster oven) at my elbow and I was on my third when he brought two BLTs and set them down. He lowered himself awkwardly into the chair across from me and watched as I bit into my sandwich. For once, my stomach wasn’t rebelling at the mere notion of food and I sighed with relief. Perhaps I needed John not just to remind me to eat, but to make food palatable.

John had that look, the one that said we were going to have a serious talk – and I knew we needed to. But, noting my appetite, he smiled at me once more and picked up his own sandwich and we ate in silence whilst Calaf answered Turandot’s riddles. 

When John finished his dinner, I pushed the biscuits towards him, taking another for myself. But he declined, John never had my sweet tooth.

“Mycroft told me...” John began. “That you’re not staying in London for long.”

I sighed again, suddenly exhausted. “I’m not finished yet.” I told him. 

I felt his hand on my ankle, rubbing comfortingly. “It’s been dangerous.” John said.

“It has.” I agreed.

His lips thinned as his jaw clenched. I prepared for a tirade... but it didn’t come. When he spoke again, John’s voice was mild. “I hate it, not being there to help you. To stitch your wounds, if nothing else.”

“I hate it too.” That was such a vast understatement. I hated everything about this whole undertaking. The challenge had faded many months ago – most of these people weren’t difficult to find nor were they especially cunning, Moriarty simply had strict rules in place protecting the organization. It was tedious work, gathering evidence against them, dismantling the cells, scattering the lower levels, imprisoning the management. It was boring – until it wasn’t and I was fighting for my life, fleeing, holing up and treating my own wounds with duct tape, boiling honey and a travel sewing kit. In the shower, John had found and carefully kissed all my new scars and bruises, culminating in the one above my ear. (“At least you had this one properly treated.”)

But most of all I hated being away from John. 

If he’d been along, the whole thing would have been a grand adventure – a romantic vacation even – instead of a slog. Instead of struggling for my life, John would be there with his gun and his impressive fighting skills....

I missed John all the time. I missed his voice, his laugh. I desperately missed his touch. When I was injured, I worried about keeping my promise to return to him. Then the prostitute... I had agonized over the betrayal. 

“Had you ever been with a woman before?” John asked.

He caught me off guard with the question – as if he had been reading my mind. (And wasn’t that MY trick?!) “Erm, no. I knew when I was quite young that I preferred men.” I smiled grimly. “I never saw the point in putting it to a test.”

“What was her name?” 

“Sarah.” I said, then I scoffed. “Not that any of those thugs knew that – she went by ‘Misty.’ Is anyone ACTUALLY named Misty? Her real name is Sarah.”

“You were friendly with her.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” I affirmed. “It’s often.... fruitful... to befriend girlfriends and mistresses – they see so much more than anyone realises – well, than any of the men realise. Of course, being friendly with the women can lead to a reputation for trying to shag other men’s wives and girlfriends – but even with the inevitable, ridiculous fights, that’s better in certain circles than being thought gay. I’ve found myself in parts of the world that are startlingly homophobic.

“On the other hand, Moriarty had quite a few powerful women in his organization – and they do not make the error of underestimating other women. That’s a man’s mistake. Navigating there has been... fraught. More than one tried to get me into her bed.”

John looked fascinated. “What did you do?”

“Ultimately I developed a strategic hygiene problem.”

John laughed. Then he stopped and his hand closed around my ankle. “It wasn’t that easy.” He said.

“No.” It hadn’t been easy. “But... it was moot, really.” I explained. “I was... passive... with Sarah and I had a terribly hard time. There’s no way I could have been the active partner with a woman... it just wouldn’t... work.” I contemplated the ginger biscuit in my hand. “I was only really pressed once. I implied I’d been... injured.”

“That worked?”

I laughed without humour. “She offered to finish the job.” I fingered a raised scar high on my thigh.

John gazed at me for a long moment. “Tell me what to do.” He said. I felt confused – do about what? “You look... haunted, Sherlock. Tell me what to do to help you.”

I felt so ashamed! I couldn’t even look at him. “I’ve been very selfish.” I told him softly. “It would have been kinder to let you think I’d died.”

“Don’t say that!”

“You would have moved on by now. Met someone else...”

“Sherlock!”

“You would be happy. Not here... not like this!” I gestured violently at the room.

“You don’t want me here?” John asked flatly.

“Of course I WANT you here!” I said. “Weren’t you listening? I’m weak, John. I’m selfish...”

“All right, shut up.” John had released my ankle and I felt bereft. But he levered himself forward out of the legless chair and crawled the meter and a half between us. “Just shut up.” He cupped my face and I clenched my eyes closed to stop the humiliating tears from falling. “I WANT to be here with you, Sherlock. I LOVE you. So just shut up about all that shite.” He kissed my face, his lips firm. “I am exactly where I want to be.” His arms encircled me and I found myself cradled against his strong chest. “Now tell me what’s wrong, my love.”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell John how arrogant I’d been, how foolish. I couldn’t tell him how badly I’d miscalculated – how it could have cost John his life. How I thought it had... I couldn’t tell him what I’d done – I couldn’t stand for John to know. I couldn’t bear how he would look at me.

I had NEVER deserved him. That was clearer to me than ever. All I’d done was endanger him and cause him pain!

John, in his ignorance, tried to comfort me. He held me close and stroked my head. He made soothing noises and dropped chaste kisses on my brow.

Because it was John, it was working. I felt myself calming, the panic and fear receding. 

“I feel safe with you.” I told him.

“You ARE safe with me.” John said. “No one can hurt you here. I won’t let them.”

I sat up, scrubbing the tears from my face. “I’m not hurt.” I told John. “I’m... fine.”

John regarded me. “Sherlock, you don’t have to tell me anything about the last year. You don’t have to tell me where you’ve been or who you’ve been with, what you’ve been doing – because I trust you. I trust you. But, Sherlock, you aren’t fine. There – there’s that look again. It breaks my heart. Please, Sherlock, let me help you.”

“There’s nothing to be done.” I said, avoiding his eyes.

 

—-

 

There was no couch, so John pulled the extra pillows and duvet out of the closet and made a sort of nest with the futons at our back. He pulled the telly out so we could see it from our nest and flipped through channels whilst I lay quite contentedly in his arms.

John settled, eventually, on a cake baking competition show and I approved as heartily as I was able.

He had brought the plate of biscuits, sitting it nearby. He was hoping I would eat more. I knew I’d lost weight – I wasn’t blind. But I’d already eaten more by half than I had in one sitting since leaving New York and it was like lead in my stomach. I ignored the sweets, letting my stomach settle, letting John stroke my shoulder absently. Letting my mind wander away from my troubles.

After a while John stirred. “God, I’ve missed you.” He said.

I picked up his hand and brought it to my lips. “I’ve missed you too. Terribly.”

He turned to me, kissed me. His lips were soft and sweet, his tongue searching...

I had been so certain I had lost him, if not to time and distance, then certainly to infidelity... or arrogance... My heart had not faltered, not for one second. But John... I had never been good enough for John and one day he would see that.

But right now he kissed me and I kissed him back, amazed at my good fortune. I cupped his face, John’s wonderful, expressive face. I loved John’s face. I kissed his brow, his cheek, the tip of his nose.

John laughed. I felt it in his chest, emanating out until his entire body shook with his adorable giggle. “You kissed my nose.” He said.

I did it again, kissed the tip of his nose. “I love your nose.” I told him.

He shook his head. “You’re insane.” He said fondly. “My nose is awful.”

I traced his profile with my fingers. It felt like CENTURIES since I’d had that simple pleasure. “You’re wrong. Your nose is beautiful.”

John cleared his throat – he didn’t want to disagree with me outright.

“Your nose is beautiful.” I insisted. “I love nothing better than waking up to see your nose.... and your upper lip, right here...” I pressed my lips to the area under his nose.

“Your chin is beautiful.” I said, kissing the small cleft that resided there. “And your jaw...” I nibbled his stubbled flesh. “I love this cowlick.” I bussed my lips over the crown of his head where his hair spiraled outward. “And this cowlick...” I touched my lips at his hairline and John made a small sound of complaint under his breath – I knew he fought that cowlick daily, that he hated it. But I loved it, I loved how it disrupted his fringe, made it impossible for him to brush his hair to the left. “This cowlick is perfect.” I told him.

“You’re being ridiculous.” John said.

“No, I’m not.” I insisted, taking his hand and bringing it to my lips. “And for once you’re going to let me tell you how lovely you are.”

John scoffed, but only very slightly. I smiled into his palm. “I love the callouses right here.” I said kissing the tips of his fingers. “And your wrist where I can feel your pulse.” I closed my eyes to savour the sensation of John’s beating heart through my lips. I tugged at his dressing gown and laid little kisses across the bullet scar on his shoulder. “This is beautiful.” I said.

“I was shot.” John said darkly.

“Yes.” I agreed. “And because you were shot, you came back to London and I met you. Without this...” I kissed the scar once more. “...we would not be together now. Sometimes I look at this –“ I traced the scar with my fingers. “– and wonder at everything that had to happen to bring us together... and what would life be like... without you...”

“Hey.” John said gently. “None of that now.” He nuzzled the side of my head, caressing my fuzz lightly.

I nodded, shaking off the melancholy. “I love your chest.” I said, rubbing my face in furry softness over his sternum. “And your shoulders - I love this spot right here...” I kissed the front of his shoulder. “...where your muscles twitch and create this little hollow...”

“Everyone’s shoulders do that.” John informed me.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson, now shut up. I adore THESE.” I caressed his firm biceps – then pushed him onto his back. “This muscle is gorgeous!” I said, dipping my head low on his abdomen, touching my lips to his left side where he’d stretched and flexed as he lay. “And this one... and this one...”

“I think I see where this is going.” John muttered.

“Do you?” I asked, my hand stroking his abdomen, seeking downwards, finding his half-hard cock. “I love your ginger bush.” I said and buried my nose in it, his groin hot against my cheek. “I LOVE the smell of you!” He was full hard now, and already damp at the tip. “Sometimes I dream of sucking you.” I told him, glancing up and meeting his eyes. He was staring at me, rapt, indulgent. “Such beautiful dreams.” Without breaking eye contact, I went down on him. 

John swore softly.

I pulled back and licked across the head. “You are perfect, John Watson. You are so beautiful and just...perfect.” 

For once, he didn’t protest. I went to work on his beautiful cock. It had been so long since I’d had cock in my mouth – let alone John’s – I wanted it to last. I edged him, bringing him right up to the brink then pulling back, slowing down, then taking him to the brink again. John allowed it, sensing maybe, how much I needed this. I sucked him until my jaw throbbed, until my throat was quite raw, and my neck began to ache. When I finally brought him off, John clutched my shoulders and cried out my name. I carefully preserved and filed every nuance – the exact pitch of John’s voice, the texture of his emission, the way his hip felt under my hand. I would have this memory, bright and clear, to sustain me through the months to come.

“I feel woozy.” John said, lying bonelessly in our nest. I lay next to him, fitting my head into the space between his shoulder and neck and smiling, fitting my body against his. I let myself be happy.

“I have plans for you.” John’s hand wandered down to my prick, hard and straining against the fabric of my kimono. “As soon as I recover...”

I chuckled, thrusting lightly into his palm.

“Mmmph!” John flipped me onto my back and rolled on top of me. His weight felt divine, pressing me into the futons. He kissed me, teasing me with his lips and tongue. I was so aroused, I wanted him to consume me... but John refused, making me pant and beg for him.

He threw off his dressing gown, pausing only to pull something from the pocket. He untied my kimono. “Take it off.” He ordered.

I squirmed out of it, leaving it beneath me. John began stroking my erection with... lotion? Yes, he had the mini tubes of lotion from the toilet and was spreading a lavish amount on me.

“Onto your side. Come on.” John tugged on my hip and I found myself laying face-to-face with him. He kissed my neck briefly, my chin, my mouth – then pulled back. With one hand on my arse, he guided my cock between his thighs, then pressed them together tightly. “Come on now.” He said.

I knew what he wanted. I began to thrust into the tight crevice between his legs, the lotion easing my way. It felt lovely – and even lovelier when he began to suck on my neck, nipping at my collarbone then bruising my lips with his kisses. Now he gave me the urgent, hungry kisses I craved. I kissed him back, sloppy and demanding. My thrusts got harder and faster. 

Then I felt his hand exploring my arse, reaching around to my hole and probing. John had more lotion on his fingers and he entered me roughly. I grunted with pleasure. Now when I thrust, I impaled myself on his hand, fucking myself as I fucked his thighs.

John’s other hand gripped the back of my neck, holding me tight. When he kissed me, it went straight to the nerve endings in my arse. I was panting for breath, panting for John. I fucked myself back harder into his fingers and he added a third. I growled, feeling insatiable. 

“More!” I demanded. John bit my lower lip, catching it between his teeth and shoved a fourth finger inside me. My prick was still between his thighs, humping desperately. John bent his fingers slightly and they raked over my prostate – I cried out, clutching at John fiercely, and came. John sank his teeth into my throat as I shuddered and shivered uncontrollably.

He kissed me gently as I came down, laying me on my back. He used his kimono to wipe his hands and the mess between his legs, then tossed it aside. He pulled the duvet over us and stretched out next to me. He touched my throat carefully. “I bit you harder than I realised.” He said, frowning.

“Doesn’t matter.” I said. “Lie down.”

He reached and turned off the light then pressed himself against me. Our bodies fit together so perfectly.

“I love you.” John murmured.

I wanted to let myself be happy still. But with orgasm my guilt and doubt returned. It was dark now, I couldn’t see John’s face ... it might be easier to talk. We still needed to talk.

“Do you?” I asked softly.

“Of course I do.” John said. “The real question is... why did you ever bother with ME, Sherlock? Let alone, fall in love?” He must have heard my ambivalence and thought it was about him.

“Oh John! You weren’t a bother! You were a challenge!” I assured him. “You stood there in my lab – at parade rest, no less – and it was obvious you were absolutely shattered. But you were holding all the pieces together with such... stubborn dignity... most people had no idea how shattered you were.

“I know I’m arrogant – too arrogant.” My voice broke but I got myself under control quickly. “One look and I knew I could help you. I did it for my vanity at first... but very quickly, I knew I had to do everything I could to keep you near me.”

I remembered how it had felt, loving him so much and telling myself I was satisfied with friendship. “I thought it was hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless. But somehow it wasn’t. John... you make me so happy... but I’ve never understood... what happened? How could you love me?” I whispered.

“You’re an idiot.” John said. But he said it fondly. “You really need me to explain it to you? You’re amazing, Sherlock! How could I not love you?” John kissed my temple. “You said I was shattered, you saved my life – I wouldn’t have lasted much longer the way I was before we met. You saved my life and you became my best friend...and all of a sudden I had the best life.

“Then you told me how you felt – I’d always found you attractive, but you warned me off that first night. You made me believe you were asexual. And, honestly, I didn’t really know what to do with my attraction to you – I’ve never felt this way about another man – so it was... convenient ... to deny it – to myself as much as anyone else.

“But you told me how you felt and I had to deal with that attraction. I made the right choice – we were together just a few months, but I finally felt... complete. I’d always been searching for something. And I‘d found it! It was you! Sherlock, I adore you!” John paused to kiss my forehead, once, twice.

“Then ...I thought you were dead. A part of me was... just gone. Forever, I thought. I knew I’d never be whole again. With time, I might find someone to be with... but I’d still love you, still mourn you. Any other relationship would be a pale shadow... a consolation.”

John let out a shuddering sigh. “But you aren’t dead! I miss you desperately, Sherlock – part of me is missing when you’re gone. But I know you’re coming back. We’ll be together! We’ll be happy... so very happy. And ...I won’t have to live the rest of my life ...broken.” He was quiet for a long moment. “You will come back?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” Did he really doubt me? “Of course! As long as you want me, I’ll come back. Why wouldn’t I come back?”

“Maybe you won’t want to.”

“John, I assure you, I want nothing more.”

“You might prefer to be alone...”

I snorted with derision.

“...or meet someone you like better...”

I laughed.

“It’s not funny.” John said, sounding hurt.

“No, it’s not funny – it’s ridiculous! John, I’ve been to bed with a lot of men over the course of my life, and you are the ONLY person I’ve EVER wanted in MY bed. I will never stop wanting you in my bed. If I can’t have that, I want you in my life. I’ll take whatever you give me.”

John settled and sighed. “No one has ever loved me the way you do.” He murmured. “I never want to lose that. Waiting... waiting is hard. I adore you! And I miss you ... waiting is so hard...”

“I’ve done something terrible.” I said abruptly. I hadn’t intended to say anything, ever. But in the face of John’s love... I couldn’t pretend any longer...

“Sherlock...”

“No... don’t... don’t say anything. Let me get it out.” I desperately didn’t want him to know... but I had to... I couldn’t bear that he only loved me because he didn’t know who I really was.

John’s arms tightened around me, but he was silent.

“Dealing with most of Moriarty’s people has been drudgery. But there were two who were clever enough not to be completely boring. I knew immediately they were working together, though outwardly they presented themselves as rivals. Eugénie Lanctot was a fixer – she would be called in to clean up messes other people within the organization made. Clean up almost always included killing whoever had made the mess, and not infrequently, punters – bystanders who were just in the wrong place. I’d been taking apart the organization – causing messes to be made – and I’d seen her team swoop in several times.

“I got myself onto her team – I needed the access she had. And through her I met Charles Augustus Magnussen – a thoroughly repulsive human being. He enjoyed playing games with governments, corporations... people’s lives. They called him ‘The Librarian,’ but he was so much more than that. He was the keeper of all the organization’s records – every person who ever worked for Moriarty, every scheme discussed, every crime committed – everything. He also kept vast amounts of information that could be used as blackmail, as a pressure points...

“I thought that if I got access to this trove, I could use it to completely dismantle the organization quickly – I thought it would just be another month, two at the most, and I could turn over all the evidence and come home.

“I was so close! I could taste it. I was already planning how to surprise you, John, how to tell you it was over, that I was home for good.” I shifted uncomfortably. John hummed softly and began petting my stubbly head. It was calming despite what I had to tell him. What I had to relive.

“I tried to use Eugénie to discover where Magnussen kept the records. I made myself indispensable. She gave me more responsibility, more access. I gained valuable intel on cells in Eastern Europe and Western Asia. I could have eventually dismantled most of the organization from there. 

“But I was impatient. I wanted Magnussen’s files – I wanted to get the whole thing over with. I must have made her suspicious. I noticed the change in her behavior towards me immediately, but she was smart. She covered by pursuing me. Sexually. Which you already know, I couldn’t...

“My usual tactic of simply ignoring any overtures didn’t work – she was quite explicit. She knew I didn’t have a girlfriend, and she knew I didn’t patronize the brothel the organization used as a base of operations for the New York cell. As far as she was concerned, I had no grounds to refuse to meet her needs whenever she wanted me to. Certainly not on aesthetic grounds, she was... quite lovely... very cultured, very French. We would have made a striking couple – She was tall and stylish with cocoa skin and wide green eyes...

“It ended in a debacle – you saw the scar.” John’s fingers brushed across the raised scar on my thigh. “She fired me. Made it clear I needed to leave the city if I wanted to continue breathing.

“I never did get the information about where Magnussen kept his trove. But I’d researched him, cased his offices and his flat. I was convinced that he had to be keeping everything at his estate in rural Connecticut. I went out there and broke in one night – the security was perfunctory at best. I thought it would be a quick in and out – if the information was on a computer, I could download it. If it was on paper, I could have Mycroft arrange a team to swoop in and take it before daylight.

“But it was all a set up. Charles Magnussen was there, lying in wait, and Eugénie ... and they knew who I was!” 

John made a small noise of dismay. I let the horror of that night wash over me once more. 

“I’d been so arrogant ... so certain that I had this right! But I had it completely wrong. They took their time rubbing that in, making sure I knew all the errors in judgment I’d made, how easy it had been to trick me, to trap me...

“Even then, I still thought I could get the records. But... there weren’t any. Magnussen had an eidetic memory. He kept all the information in his head. In his memory palace. Even if he told me everything – which of course he would not – there was no proof of any wrongdoing. Just hearsay. Just stories. 

“I expected them to try and kill me then, but they weren’t finished gloating. I was alive... which meant YOUR life was forfeit, John. They...” I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. “They showed me video... they claimed it was being filmed live in London and sent directly to them – that there was a three second delay, no more, in seeing what was actually happening...

“They showed me you... leaving the flat, walking down Baker Street... and...” Here my voice did break. I put my hand to my face and found it was wet, tears falling freely past my ears. “And you fell, suddenly, to the ground. You’d been shot – and somehow I knew the sniper had done it, the one we were looking for before I left. You didn’t... you didn’t move... blood pooled around you... someone ran over and started shouting for the police, for an Ambulance...”

John had not stopped petting my head, but I could feel tension in his body – as he must have been able to feel in mine. “I thought you were dead, John! They must not have known what you meant to me. Or they thought it would break me, seeing you killed. And it would have soon enough – but they didn’t plan on my rage... I didn’t care anymore if they killed me. I didn’t care about the records or bringing down the organization. I cared about one thing: revenge. They had taken you from me. So I killed them.” 

John’s fingers tightened around my arm. I felt him kiss my head softly. “I killed them... it wasn’t fast. It wasn’t easy. I disarmed the guards, I used one as a shield and his fellows shot him. I used his gun to shoot the other two. Magnussen laughed – he actually laughed when I killed his thugs. He came at me. I could have shot him too, shot them both, but that was too good for them, too fast. I had three knives on me that hadn’t been found in the pat-down, and I used them all. They both fought, but they had created a monster. I stabbed Magnussen in the liver, then beat him to death... with my hands. It took... a long time... he was... still crying when I had brain matter on my fists. 

“I had pistol whipped Eugénie, knocked her down. But she recovered and ran whilst I dealt with Magnussen ... I caught her...” This was the part that gave me the most shame... the part I could neither explain nor excuse. “I... I cut her hamstrings... I didn’t kill her right away... I sat on her chest and I... I wanted to make her suffer... I wanted her to feel one iota of the pain she’d caused me. I...I gouged one of her eyes out... with my fingers...she screamed and screamed... and I felt nothing. Nothing but irritation at the noise. I cut her throat and watched as she choked and bled out. I could have just shot her...

“After... I called Mycroft and railed at him for letting you die – he was very calm, he found you on CCTV and assured me you were quite alive. Then he insisted I tell him what I’d done... I barely remember what happened then. I was in shock, I assume.

“That was ten days ago.” I told John tonelessly. “I don’t know how Mycroft got me out of the U.S. He brought me here...” 

I stopped talking and waited, waited for John’s horror. He was such a decent man, so good. He had such high standards for himself – and for me. I had never been able to live up to John’s standards... and now...

But John didn’t speak. He held me and continued petting my hair. He kissed my head gently.

“John... forgive me – not for... I know that’s unforgivable. Forgive me for not telling you right away... forgive me for wanting to keep it from you. I’m selfish ... I didn’t want you to think of me like that...”

“I’m so sorry.” John said softly. 

I held my breath – now he would break it off with me, leave me. I was a monster, John couldn’t possibly love me now.

“I’m so sorry, love. You’ve been out there all alone. I’m so sorry I wasn’t with you! I could kill Mycroft for sending you there alone – if I weren’t so bloody grateful right now that he got you out, that he brought you home.”

I felt confused...and exhausted. “I... I know this changes things... if you want to move, I’ll ... I’ll tell Mycroft to find you someplace...”

“I don’t want to move, Sherlock. Why would I want to move?”

“I’m an idiot – of course you can have the flat. Mycroft can have someone take away anything you don’t want...”

“What are you talking about?” John asked flatly.

“I’m, erm.... trying to make this easier for you...”

“Make what easier?”

“Our... John... you can’t possibly still... love me. Not after what I did...”

“Sherlock... don’t be daft, of course I love you. Weren’t you listening before?”

“But... what I did... I’m a monster.”

John blew out a breath carefully. “I was in the army, Sherlock. I’m very well aware that, under certain circumstances, all of us are capable of ... great cruelty. ALL of us.” He kissed my head again. “If someone took you from me... I would not hesitate to do exactly what you did. When you... when I thought you had died, I knew it was Moriarty’s doing. I felt... cheated... that he’d shot himself. I wanted to – no, I NEEDED to track him down and chop him into little pieces until he died screaming...” John’s voice faltered. “I am angry that you were there alone, that they put you in that situation. I’m angry that you have to live with these memories when THEY are the criminals, the murderers.” John took a deep breath, calming himself. “You have had so little happiness in your life, Sherlock. It hurts me how little joy you’ve been afforded. That they can rob you of your peace of mind like this – make you think you don’t DESERVE to be happy – THAT is the real horror here! The world is better off without them. I won’t lose one second of sleep over it! And I’m... furious... and so sad, and sorry, that you have.”

“John...” It was all I could manage as I burrowed my face into his chest and clung to him, all the fear and guilt and hurt of the past two weeks – of the past fourteen months! – came gushing out of me through torturous sobs. John held me, his arms and legs around me, his face pressed to my head, and shushed soothingly, a cool balm on the white hot inferno of my shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, one and all!


	10. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t end up incorporating it, but I was thinking that John’s sudden disappearance would be a red flag if he was indeed being watched. Mycroft, of course, had a story ready: John had to take his drunken sister to rehab on the spur of the moment. Harry actually DID end up in a Scottish rehab centre, and John was helicoptered to Edinburgh and put on a train back to London. An operative of Mycroft’s handed John an overnight bag with clean pants in it – something John would have really appreciated in the hotel!
> 
> In other news, John meets Mary Morstan!

JOHN 

Stamford dragged me along to a game of his ‘masters’ rugby league. I had been resisting the idea for months, certain that ‘masters’ was a euphemism for ‘fat, old men,’ certain that a Sunday morning spent socializing with strangers was the last thing I wanted.

However ... I enjoyed myself. I hadn’t played proper rugby since uni, but it had been my religion from the moment I made the team when I was twelve until I started medical school at 22 – something Stamford and I had bonded over as we studied anatomy together and bemoaned our atrophying muscles. St. Barts was far too rigourous a program to allow time for anything as frivolous as sports. Not to mention time for friends, pints, pubs, pulling, girlfriends, lingering meals, cinema, telly – good or bad – mystery novels, newspapers, lazy mornings or anything else I had ever liked doing. There was school, study and whatever time was leftover was for sleep.

Running, sweating, wrestling in the scrum, slipping and splashing down the muddy field... I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: joy. That singular, fierce joy of using your body hard. And my body... the things I’d been doing in my loneliness and worry – daily runs, whiling away hours in the gym, eating only to survive – had returned my body to something close to the effortless fitness I had enjoyed in my youth. It was ... thrilling.

Thrilling enough that I agreed without reservations to join the lads for a pint afterwards. It was a mistake. My aerobic high dissipated quickly at the pub and I crashed hard back into depression. Mike saw it – he didn’t argue when I slipped out after one drink.

 

—-

 

It had been five months since I’d left Sherlock in the Japanese hotel room. Mycroft had insisted there could be no more delay or the intelligence Sherlock had gathered in New York would be useless.

“You can’t be serious.” I’d argued. “Sherlock has PTSD. Look at him! He can’t go back out there!”

“John...” Sherlock had said quietly. There was such sorrow in his voice.

“He must.” Mycroft said. “We cannot let Moriarty’s people regroup. They’re vulnerable now, but they won’t be for long.”

“I don’t care.” I said. “He’s not ready. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s always been dangerous. I’ve been told that’s it appeal.” Mycroft said lightly.

“This is serious, Mycroft!”

“He’s right, John.” Sherlock’s voice was toneless now, his eyes hooded.

“It’s been fewer than two weeks, Sherlock. You need more time to recover.”

“There is no more time.” Mycroft interjected. “We’ve pushed it as far as we can. It has to be now.”

“I’ll get dressed.” Sherlock told him. 

I followed Sherlock into the bedroom. The futons and bedding had been stowed in the closet so the room was absolutely bare. All sign of the love we’d made in that room erased.

(The night before I had pinned Sherlock against the wall and DEVOURED him. His hips strained under my hands as I held him still, his lips were red and kiss-swollen and he moaned with desire. I didn’t hold myself back. I took him, took what I wanted... gave him what he needed...)

Now, I struggled to control myself. “I’m going with you.” I told him. “You need me.”

Sherlock pulled a suit out of the closet, one I’d never seen before. It was cut differently than the bespoke suits I was used to seeing him in. The trousers were pleated and baggy, the jacket boxy. It was... shiny. Sherlock started donning it without even a moue of distaste.

“I need you here.” Sherlock said, not looking at me.

“Sherlock...” I began. “Is that... gabardine?” 

He glanced down at the jacket in his hands. “I need you here, John.” He repeated. “I need to know you are here... that there’s a reason to come home...”

“Stop it! If I’m with you, I can keep you healthy. Stitch up your wounds. I can shoot the bloody thug BEFORE he cuts you up!” I looked at his too-thin frame. “I’m worried about you, Sherlock. About your... state of mind...”

“John, please... I WANT you with me. Obvious! Too obvious – nothing would alert Moriarty’s people faster. They’d see us coming. They’d kill us both. I... I can’t have that. You have to be safe.”

“You have to be safe too.” I said softly, my hands on his arms. “Sherlock, I can’t stay here and do nothing! It’s driving me mad! You. Need. Me. With. You. You need my help!”

“I do.” Sherlock admitted, finally looking me in the eyes. “I do. And I want you with me. But THEY WILL KNOW! John, what you have to do is so much harder. You HAVE to stay home.”

I didn’t want to hear it. I couldn’t bear to let him go. Let him risk everything again. Without me... 

And then, god help me, I realised something terrible about myself: I was envious. Sherlock had murdered five people with his bare hands – acts that gave him screaming nightmares when he could manage to sleep – and I was JEALOUS.

Yes, I was worried about him. I was out of my mind with worry about him. It was beyond foolish to go back into such danger in his state. But I was also envious that he was doing something so crazily perilous whilst I was doing absolutely nothing. Less than nothing – I was moping around, shutting myself off from the world...

I nodded once to Sherlock. It was all I could manage. I prayed that his PTSD hadn’t let him deduce my insanity, my shame.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed me. I pulled him close, holding him tightly, feeling his need for this comfort. I gave him what I had, hoping it would be enough.

Then Mycroft called out sharply. “Sherlock!” And I let him go.

 

—-

 

Would I ever see him again? Somehow it had been easier to hope – to believe – before the few days spent with him in that Japanese-style hotel room. Now I could not help but imagine all the dangers he had faced. All he was facing now... if he had survived this long...

A shriek pulled me from my reverie. 

It was late afternoon, gray and dim in the weak February light. I had decided to walk home from the pub after I’d left Stamford and the rugby lads. It was a long walk, but I had nothing better to do...

The cry had come from a small knot of people disappearing into a lane between shops. I dashed down the street and into the lane – a man had a small, blonde woman in the shadows, pressed against a brick wall. He groped her, one hand over her mouth. She scratched him and attempted to gouge his eye. He stopped her – not as easily as he wanted – and slugged her, hard, in retaliation. I heard the impact of his fist against her face, heard her truncated “oof.”

The second man was holding a purse and had been rooting through it. But he watched with interest as his mate struck the woman. 

I started towards them, fury stilling my mind absolutely, excitement filling my veins.

“Hey!” The man holding the purse saw me coming and pulled himself up to his full height belligerently and whipped out a knife. I didn’t stop my forward progression, didn’t pause at all. I blocked his knife arm and dropped him with a vicious uppercut. 

The first bloke didn’t notice – he was intent on the woman, ripping open her blouse. I grabbed him by the neck and jerked him off her. (Noting in my peripheral vision that she sagged when he let her go.) I slammed his head into the brick wall, hard, then spun him to face the opposite wall and pinned him against it. He was bigger than I, broader and taller, but my hold had him immobilized. He would have to break his own arm to get free.

“Call 999.” I commanded the woman. “Hey!”

“What?” She asked. I turned to glance at her – she was shaking her head dizzily, still sagging against the brick.

I swore. I had to see to her. I smashed the big man’s head into the wall again, stunning him. I switched my hold to a half nelson, choking off his air until he went limp. I lowered him to the ground, noting that I’d broken his nose. I rolled him onto his side into the recovery position, then checked his friend. The purse-snatcher was sitting awkwardly with his back against the wall where he’d dropped, still out cold. His pulse was strong, so I left him there.

A thought appeared, fully-formed in my brain: it’s not five villains trying to kill me, but it will do.

I turned to the woman. She was staring at me with huge, fearful, brown eyes. “I’m a doctor.” I told her. “I’d like to examine your face. He hit you pretty hard.”

She continued to stare and I wondered if shock had completely taken her wits. Then she said, “Ok.”

I nodded and took her head in my hands, at chin and temple. Her eyes followed my movements – that was good. “Can you tell me who the prime minister is?” I asked her.

She laughed, a sudden bark. “Teresa May.” She said. “It’s 2017. I’m fine.”

I smiled at her. “Not exactly fine.” I said. “You’re going to have quite a bruise. And...” I gestured down at her torn blouse.

“Oh!” She squeaked and pulled her coat tightly around herself, but not before I had the curve of her breasts in lavender lace seared into my brain. I hoped fervently that she hadn’t noticed – the very last thing she needed right now was to be ogled.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed praying that I wasn’t blushing. “Greg? It’s John Watson. Yeah, listen – I need some help...”

Twenty minutes later, I was sipping tea in a cafe on the high street. I’d turned the thugs over to a couple bobbies Lestrade had sent, then taken the poor woman to the cafe where she could sit and get warm.

I’d given her my coat, so I was quite happy to be out of the cold as well.

“Are you really a doctor?” She asked when I gave her a handful of ice wrapped in a tea cloth for her cheek.

“Yeah. I am. Yeah.”

“I‘ve never seen a doctor do quite so well in a punch up.”

“I, erm, spent a bit of time in the army.” I told her, pressing the ice more firmly against her face. “The ice really will help.”

“How much time is ‘a bit?’” She smiled at me, a little lopsided, but pretty nonetheless.

“Twelve years. Captain John Watson at your service.”

“I’m Mary. Mary Morstan.” She sipped her tea. “Thank you – is it Captain Watson or Doctor Watson?”

“It’s John.” I said. 

“Well, thank you... John.” Mary took my hand. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t...”

“Don’t think about that right now.” I said squeezing her hand gently. “Tell me...” I cast about for something that might distract her. “What do you do?”

“Oh. I, erm, I’m an administrator. A hospital administrator.” She said it ruefully and I chuckled.

“So you’ve seen a few punch-ups between doctors.”

“One or two...”

“John?” It was Lestrade. I suddenly realised how close Mary and I were sitting, that we were holding hands. I sat back, putting my hands in my lap.

“Greg. I didn’t expect you to come out yourself.”

“I wasn’t busy.” He said. He looked bemused and I knew why. Mary was very attractive – petite and pretty, but not showy. Sensible with intelligent eyes... just my type. I gave him a look that I hoped would discourage any ideas he might be getting.

He took us to NSY, to his office. I waited whilst Lestrade took Mary’s statement... and felt a little ill. I’d never been here without Sherlock. 

I gave my statement. 

When I was finished, Lestrade gazed at me speculatively. “John –“

“Greg. Don’t.”

“It’s been almost two years, John. Sherlock would want you to live your life, to be happy.”

I shook my head. “Just drop it. Please.”

“Ok. Ok.” I stood up to go. “I’m worried about you, John.”

“I’m fine.” I said tightly and left his office. Everything there was Sherlock.

I fled. It was dark outside. I leaned against a tree, not ready to flag a cab, not ready to go home.

Not ready...

Except I was more than ready for Sherlock to be home! I was sick to death of waiting. Sick of doing nothing. I felt useless. 

“John?”

It was Mary. 

“Oh. Yeah. Hi.” I stood up straighter.

“I’m glad I caught you. I still have your coat.” She held it out to me.

“Right. Thanks.” I took it from her.

“Are you ok?” Mary asked.

“I’m fine.” I said. “Fine.”

Mary smiled. She had a kind smile. An understanding smile. “Good.” She hesitated. “Listen... I’ve ruined your evening –“

“No – if my evening is ruined, it’s not YOUR fault. I had nothing on anyway.”

“Then... let me take you to dinner. It’s the least I can do... to thank you for...”

“Mary, you don’t have to thank me.”

“But I want to. I was so frightened...” She shivered. The police had given her a pale blue sweatshirt when they took her torn blouse. I forced myself not to think of lavender lace covering milky skin. The sweatshirt was too big and looked ridiculous with her skirt and low heels. I noticed that her tights were ripped. “Honestly... I don’t really want to be alone right now. I tried calling a friend...”

“Yes.” I said. “Yes, dinner would be lovely.”

Mary smiled again, a little lopsided. She was pale – she’d washed her face and not bothered to reapply makeup. The bruise on her cheek was blooming, it would black her eye, I could tell. The swelling was minimal however – the ice had done its job.

I hailed a cab and held the door open for her.

 

—-

 

At dinner I laughed. I hadn’t laughed – really laughed – since Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Barts. It felt amazing.

Mary was smart and funny and not the least bit flirtatious. And she didn’t know anything about Sherlock. She didn’t look at me anxiously – or look beyond me reflexively, expecting to see him. Then turning to me with bitterness in their eyes.

“What did someone so amazing see in YOU?!” Their eyes accused. I couldn’t blame them, I’d asked the same question myself.

Mary was comfortable. I found myself relaxing.

After dinner, as I took her home, I gave her my phone number and told her to call or text if she felt dizzy or if her cheekbone continued to ache – as if she didn’t work at hospital and know dozens of doctors.

I told myself I wasn’t trying to pull her. I told myself I was just concerned. I told myself I would have done the same thing if Sherlock had been sitting next to me. I told myself it was just a reflex, a habit – I had, after all, spent at least 25 years trying to convince women to sleep with me. I told myself to quit perseverating about it. 

Two days later, Mary texted a selfie of her black eye. -first rule of fight club- the text read, -do not talk about fight club-

-that’s a magnificent shiner- I texted back.

-I’m not generally so dramatic, but I think it suits me-

-I’ve never seen a better looking black eye-

-careful, you’ll turn my head-

-until the next black eye comes along. I’m fickle-

-I could tell that right away-

I found myself grinning, trying to think of an amusing comeback. I put my phone away instead.

I didn’t think about Mary again. She truly was out of sight, out of mind. Until a week later when she called.

“I’m sorry to bother you like this.”

“No bother, Mary. What’s up? Are you feeling ok?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine. I have a favour to ask – ANOTHER favour...” She stumbled over the words. “I am so grateful, you know, so please say ‘no’ if this is asking too much.”

“I promise to brutally disappoint you – out with it.” It was difficult to be irritated with her.

“A friend of mine is having a dinner party next Saturday and he wants to invite you – all my friends want to meet the person who rescued me... and he needs you to make an even number...”

“He wants me to rescue his party from having an odd number...”

“Mostly he wants to see if I made you up. Having an even number is a bonus.”

“Far be it from me to disappoint your friend.”

“You’ll come?”

“Absolutely. Text me the address.”

“Thank you, John! I will.”

A week later I found myself standing in Sloan Square clutching a bottle of wine, squinting at house numbers wondering why I had agreed to this dinner with people I didn’t know when I’d been dodging the people I DID know...

“Hey there.” Mary appeared out of nowhere and took my arm. “It’s over here.” She smiled at me. She looked fetching in a red coat and sparkling barrettes.

I let her lead me, smiling back a little foolishly. I noticed her heels sparkled like her barrettes and she’d swapped tights for smoky nylons. “Erm... I think I might be underdressed.” I wore what I always wore, jeans, a button down and a jumper under my utilitarian donkey coat. 

“You’re fine.” She assured me. “Seb ALWAYS overdresses and Cam lives in an ancient pair of chinos, so anything goes.”

“Well, you look lovely.” I told her. She squeezed my arm and I cleared my throat self-consciously. “How’s your cheek?” I asked. “Your eye?”

“Still a little bruised, but the swelling is gone. It barely hurts now. See?” We had arrived at a well-lit door and she turned her face to me. Her eye and cheek had the tail end of fading bruises, green shadows with purple accents – the stubborn subcutaneous blood that lingered. It was barely noticeable – I was much more aware of her red lips and laughing brown eyes.

“Mm. Yeah, healing well.” I said awkwardly.

I was relieved when the door swung open. “Seb!” Mary cried, embracing the man. He was tall, blonde and athletic, wearing a bespoke suit that reminded me achingly of Sherlock. 

“Seb, this is John Watson. John, my dear friend Sebastian Moran.” I looked into his cold blue eyes as I shook his hand and wanted to shiver. He was tan and a bit weathered looking – it suited him, tempered his relentless elegance. I realised with relief that Moran didn’t have Sherlock’s effortless grace. He was much more formal and even a bit fussy, wearing a heavy platinum bracelet and ring with French cuffs.

“It’s good to meet you.” He said. I had expected him to sound posh, but his accent was pure Brixton. “Mary tells me we have something in common – I were in the daft too, wasn’t I.

I recognized the rhyming slang for ‘army’ – daft and barmy, shortened to ‘daft.’ “Oh? Where were you stationed?” I asked politely as he took my coat. He didn’t blink at my jumper and jeans, but his eyes slid over me voraciously. Mary wore a black cocktail dress under her red coat.

“India.” Moran said. “By the Pakistani border.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Saw a bit of trouble there, I wager.”

“Indeed. And you, Cap’n Watson, d’you see any barney rubble?”

“I did, yeah. In Afghanistan.” Moran just nodded, but Mary’s eyes were round.

“You didn’t tell me that!” She whispered as Moran led us deeper into the flat. I could see the Indian influence in the decor.

I shrugged. “Didn’t come up.”

Moran introduced the rest of the party. Cam looked to be about ten years older than I, with white-blonde hair turning to silver. He had a slight Northern European accent, Danish or Finnish, I thought. And as Mary had claimed, he wore a pair of olive chinos and a fisherman’s sweater – but unlike me, he wore it with the studied neglect of the very rich.

There were three other women and another man, none of whom made much of an impression and I struggled to keep their names in my memory. I WAS happy to note that two of them wore jeans.

“Are they together? Seb and Cam?” I asked Mary whilst the former checked on dinner and the latter was engaged with other guests.

“Oh, no. Cam’s straight. And he says it’s a good thing because they’re too competitive to make a good couple. Seb says it would be like – and I quote – having a zig with me one and t’other.”

I laughed. “Like shagging his brother. Charming.” 

“He is, though. Completely charming. Don’t you think?”

An alarming thought occurred to me. “Mary, you aren’t trying to fix me up with Seb...”

“What? No! John, I didn’t even realise you were gay.”

“I’m not.” I took a deep breath. “But to be fair, I’m not exactly straight either.”

“Oh...” She didn’t seem to know what to say.

I shrugged and took a gulp of wine, wishing I were anywhere but there.

But Mary smiled at me kindly. “John... I recently ended a relationship and I’m not in the market –“

“No.” I said quickly. “I’m not–“

“I know.” Mary assured me. “That’s what I’m saying. I wouldn’t have invited you here if I thought you were interested... but you’ve been nothing but a perfect gentleman, John. You make me feel comfortable. I appreciate that almost as much as the rescue.”

I nodded, relieved. Then laughed at myself – how many years had I hated when an attractive woman just wanted to be friends...

Dinner was ... long. The food was excellent, but my appetite wasn’t. I was sat across from Mary next to Seb at the head of the table. A seat of honour, I knew, but I would have been more comfortable farther away from those cold, blue eyes. 

Instead I made small talk, answered questions about Afghanistan, attempted to interpret Seb’s rapid-fire rhyming slang, and endured Cam giving a toast. “To Mary’s hero, we cannot express how grateful we are to you, John.”

“How, erm, how do you know each other?” I asked Seb. 

“We had a mutual China, didn’t we, luv.” Seb said, a strange glint in his chilly gaze. I mentally translated ‘China.’ China plate = mate. 

“Yes.” Mary said, her much warmer eyes lighting up. “All of us here, really, were brought together by Seb’s partner, Marcas.” She pronounced the name with a Celtic lilt.

“Oh. He sounds... outgoing.” I said awkwardly. I didn’t know if Marcas was dead, out of town or had simply moved on. 

“He was.” Mary said. “He was wonderful. He passed on a few years ago, but we’ve all stayed close.”

“I’m so sorry.” I said.

“It was Barry Crocker.” Seb said and it took me a moment to realise he meant Marcas’ death had been a shocker – unexpected. By then Seb had left the table for another bottle of wine.

After dinner, Seb revealed that his large, London flat had a conservatory. I wondered again how a Brixton lad in the Queen’s ‘daft and barmy’ was able to afford all this.

The conservatory was airy and spare, one wall made of windows, all black as the night beyond them. A stuffed tiger, nine feet long, paced the marble floor and the heads of other animals – an elephant, a bear, a zebra and an elaborately antlered elk among them – were mounted on the walls. Cam sat with Mary on a white divan and smoked non-stop. Seb served brandy. The other guests flocked to Cam, almost sycophantly. I didn’t know why – if Seb’s blue eyes were cold, Cam’s were arctic, flat and dead and dangerous.

But he smiled faintly at Mary and spoke to her with animation...

I wandered over to admire the guns displayed at the far end of the room... and found Seb beside me. “Andy pandy.” He said handing me a brandy glass.

“Ta.”

“Do you shoot?” He asked. “Of course you bloody shoot, you’re daft and barmy like me.”

I wanted to protest that I was nothing like him. “I haven’t much experience with rifles.” I said instead. “Especially game rifles.”

“There’s nothing better than stalking game, innit.” Seb said. “Just you and a gun against all of nature.”

“Me and a gun against a little corner of Afghanistan didn’t work out so well.” I said.

“You were wounded?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate.

“She found me.” Seb gestured at the tiger. “And I looked death in the mince pie. You’ve looked death in the eye, haven’t you John.”

“Once or twice.” I said, thinking not of desert sand but of a semtex vest and the crazy eyes of a psychopath. “She found you – she was stalking you?” I wasn’t sure which would be worse – being stalked by Moriarty or the tiger.

“Yes. I knew there was a man eater, didn’t I. Had taken some tin lids from the village. Three or four of the little ones. Didn’t know she’d caught our scent – then she took Wiggins, me Sergeant. Nothing I could do for him, unlucky bugger, his fruit and nuts spread all over the bloody place. Put him out of his misery from the snipers nest, didn’t I, then put a ball between her mince pies. I used this gun.” Moran opened the case and took out a military style sniper rifle and handed it to me.

Reflexively, I checked to see if it was loaded. It was not. With a quick glance at Moran I pointed it at the wall and put the barrel to my shoulder. I looked through the scope and saw the edge of the elephant’s ear magnified.

“You were a sniper?” I asked.

“Early in me career.” He replied. “Before I was promoted.”

I nodded and handed the gun back to him. His hand brushed mine as he took it. I looked into his eyes, held his gaze for a long, electric moment. 

“What do you do now, Seb.” I asked. 

“Me Captain Kirk?” He shrugged but didn’t look away. “I play cards. Bet on the ponies. A bit o’ rats and mice.”

“You rely on Friar Tuck.” I said, knowing full well it meant ‘luck,’ but also ‘fuck.’

“No, mate. Skill.” He held out his hands and waggled his fingers, platinum glinting in the light. “Me brass bands are bloody skillful.”

I was certain now that he was coming on to me. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

Seb smiled at me. “I didn’t think you were a garden tool, did I.”

I scoffed and shared another portentous smile with him. “Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?” I asked, feeling nervous sweat blooming under my arms. “This week maybe?”

“Yes.” He said simply.

“How about Thursday night.” 

“Brilliant.”

I pulled out my phone. “Give me your number and I’ll text the details.”

He recited the number and stood very close whilst I typed in his name.

“Nice to see you two getting along.” Mary joined us. 

 

—-

 

“It has to be him.” I told Lestrade, sotto voce. “It has to be. There are too many coincidences – a well-dressed, blonde gambler with sniper training? How many men in London fit that description? How many in the world?”

“Not many.” Lestrade allowed.

“The real question.” I told him. “Is is he toying with me?” I sipped my pint and waited for another customer to move away. “Moran doesn’t know we know he’s a gambler. And he doesn’t know – not for certain – that we have a description of him. Not from the dry cleaner anyway. He had his hair covered when he spoke to Mrs Fein’s neighbor in the high rise.”

“Assuming he’s our sniper – I’m not saying he is – why would he show you the gun? Maybe it’s not the one he used to kill Luther Jones.”

“It is.” I said. “I’m certain. Either he’s taunting me, or he thinks I’m a complete ‘garden tool?’”

“A what?” Lestrade asked.

“A fool. Didn’t I tell you? Moran uses rhyming slang like it’s going out of style. Did the dry cleaner say anything about that?”

“I’ll check. But he might not have used it there, purposefully. I’d think it’d be memorable.”

“Outside of Brixton, yeah.”

“Have you considered...” Lestrade said carefully. “That Mary...”

“That Mary might be in on it? That the attack might have been arranged? Yeah, I’ve considered it.” I played with my pint glass, turning it back and forth, thinking that Sherlock wouldn’t be guessing like this, Sherlock would KNOW already. Fuck, I missed him! “It’s making me paranoid, Greg. I keep wondering if Sebastian Moran is looking at me right now through that sniper scope.”

“I’ll find out whatever I can about him.” Lestrade said. “Put someone on the flat, see if we can get a photo to show the dry cleaner.”

“Good.”

“I don’t like that you’re meeting up with him again. Be careful, John.”

“We’re meeting in public – I told you where and when. He won’t shoot me over a drink. I’ll be more afraid if he DOESN’T show up.”

“Famous last words.” Lestrade said and drained the rest of his pint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an xmas gift to myself, I took a few days off writing to read Earlgreytea68’s FANTASTIC Johnlock. I have been so inspired by her ‘Baseball’ series, that I’ve made an extensive outline for a story about Sherlock winning the Tour de France – I know a lot about bike racing... but I promise that I’ll finish THIS piece first.
> 
> WTF Mary Morstan!? Are you an innocent pawn in all this or are you a bad actor? Does Moran KNOW that John KNOWS? Or does he want to get closer to John simply to find out what, if anything, he knows?
> 
> Slaving away on the next installment! New chapter in a new year! Happy 2018, everyone. May it be better than 2017. And 2016...
> 
> As always, I look forward to your insightful comments.


	11. The Beginning Of The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces his last task in destroying Moriarty’s organisation.

SHERLOCK 

 

It was early morning and I wasn’t yet quite awake, still dozing but becoming aware of my surroundings. 

John. 

John lay next to me, our limbs entangled, his breathing the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. His body pressed against mine made my chest heavy, almost painful, with joy – this man had chosen me! I had loved him for so long and somehow – somehow! – John had looked at this skinny, unsentimental, rude man and had wanted him! John, the best of men, had come willingly into my bed and taught me to be happy. 

I didn’t move, wanting this moment with John to stretch out into minutes, hours, days...

...It was dank and very dark and my entire body ached. I was naked. I lay on cement that stank of waste and rot. 

Alone.

I tried to grasp the fading dream, John sleeping in my bed in Baker Street... joy...

But it evaporated, leaving me cold and alone.

Alone protected me, I reminded myself. Other people were the threat.

I had dreaded coming here. But I had known almost from the beginning that it would be necessary. I gave myself a 67 percent chance of completing this mission successfully. 

I gave myself a 36 percent chance of surviving it.

It would be so much easier to do what I had to do here if I had never met John. 

 

—-

 

I was moved into the general population. It smelled marginally better in the filthy, cement room I shared with seven other men, and there was a window with a view of unbroken blue sky through the iron bars.

I had an upper bunk, of course. I would have to earn a lower bunk, earn a place in a better room with fewer roommates.

I deduced my seven roommates instantly: 

1\. Murderer. Killed his wife or girlfriend in a rage. Not very bright. Easily angered, easily manipulated. Soldier in Vinokourov’s gang... but uncertain of his status. Bottom bunk.

2\. Political. Published an anarchist newspaper. Keeps to himself. No protection from theft, abuse or rape other than trying not to attract attention. Upper bunk.

3\. Political. Arrested at a demonstration. Convicted on trumped up charges. Relatively smart. Knows how to fight. Bottom bunk.

4\. Thief. Prostitute. Disfigured from prison abuse. A shell of the pretty boy he used to be. Upper bunk.

5\. Murderer. Intelligent. Watchful. Cunning. Been here only a few days, but already has a bottom bunk. Will soon be recruited into Vinokourov’s gang.

6\. Religious minority. Elderly. Thoroughly institutionalized. Upper bunk.

7\. Smuggler. Source for any and all contraband. Bottom bunk. Also occupies windowsill, 90 percent of shelving. One of the only fat men in the prison.

8\. Me. I had grown a full beard and wore a pair of black frame glasses to disguise myself. The glasses had promptly broken on the cement floor in solitary. I bound the two halves together as well as I could with thread pulled from my coat.

Rooming with the smuggler was a stroke of luck. I could work with this.

I wasn’t hungry, but the mess was the best place to discover who was who and how to make myself invaluable to Vinokourov. I was careful to queue with the smuggler and the up-and-comer – one is always judged by the company he keeps.

I saw immediately the hierarchy in the mess hall, identified Vinokourov’s table, and located the best place I would be allowed to sit. I collected my supper – a vile smelling mound of cabbage and turnip with a few bits of gamey meat and a hunk of bread. I took a seat, studying the social organism that was the gang.

The man next to me took my bread.

I sighed – I didn’t want the sodding bread, but I couldn’t allow anyone to take liberties. I grabbed his wrist and twisted. 

“I’ll break your thumb.” I growled in Kazakh, aware that all eyes at the table were on me.

“Faggot!” He sucker punched me in the ribs, knocking my glasses into the table.

I clung to his wrist as I gasped for air like a fish. I stomped his foot under the table, hard, then gritted my teeth and broke his thumb. He screeched. The guards watched with minor interest as I reclaimed my hunk of bread.

“Ima kill you, faggot.” 

It was all so tiresome.

I found my glasses and guarded my food until the meal was over, then I threw it away. I didn’t make a show of it, but I knew it was seen and assessed. 

“Hey, freshie, you don’t like the food, maybe I can get you something else.”

It was the smuggler. 

“I can’t pay.” I said without stopping, without looking at him.

“Mouth like that, you can pay for whatever you want on your knees. You should get rid of the whiskers.”

I grunted. “I’m not hungry.”

“What’s that accent?” The smuggler asked – I was fluent in Russian and conversant in Kazakh, but nowhere near good enough to pass for a local. “American?”

I gave him a dirty look. “Australian.”

He snorted with delight. “It’s ALL English.”

“Debatable.” I muttered.

“What the fuck you doing here!?”

I shrugged. “Travel expands the mind.”

“No – what are you doing HERE.” He indicated the prison around us. “Drugs, right.”

I paused, considering. “Turns out murder is illegal in this hell-pit of a country.” I said.

He guffawed. “Who’d YOU kill? Get mad at your boyfriend and scratch him to death?”

I turned and regarded him for the first time – he hadn’t expected the eyes behind the rickety glasses to be so cold and hard.

“I don’t mean nothing by it, English.” The smuggler laughed without a hint of apology. “In prison, everyone’s a faggot. Everyone has to suck someone’s dick, you know.”

“Even an old frog like you?”

“I wasn’t always old.” He said, his laughter disappearing in the wake of bitter memories.

“He doesn’t.” I looked pointedly towards Vinokourov. “He doesn’t get on his knees for anyone.”

“Stay away from him. He eats pretty boys like you whole. Won’t be nothing left when he’s done.”

“YOU do business with him.”

“I do business with everyone.” The smuggler told me. “And I ain’t no pretty, foreign boy.”

“Mmm.” We’d gotten back to our cell and the smuggler sat heavily on his bunk. “Can you get tape? Something I can use to repair my glasses?”

“I can get whatever you want.” He tittered.

“How about heroin?” I asked. “Cocaine.”

The smuggler looked weary. “That what got you in here? You just another junkie? Yeah, I can get it.”

“No. Just something to pass the time.” I tried to say it casually, but even I didn’t believe it.

“Who DID you kill, English?” His skepticism was palpable.

“A rich man.”

“Ah, for his money!”

“No. For the money his son paid me.”

“A hit?” That actually surprised him. I felt the old man’s interest in me growing. He looked me over with newly appraising eyes. “How’d you get caught?”

“Son didn’t want to pay.” I told him mildly. “I had to be ...persuasive. Lost track of time.” 

The smuggler giggled with delight. “That was YOU, English? I heard about you! Cops find you covered in blood with a skinned corpse still screaming.”

“Wasn’t a corpse yet.” I observed unemotionally.

He laughed harder, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

“Shut up! I’m sick of your stupid laughing.” It was the man who’d murdered his wife, the one insecure in his place in Vinokourov’s gang.

The smuggler just tittered at him. “Tell Vino his shipment’s in, Hulk.”

“That’s not my name.”

“It’s your nickname. Means I like you.”

“Just give me the shipment.”

“No way. Not after what happened last time. I’ll have it delivered. Just tell Vino it’s here.”

Hulk flexed his hands menacingly. It gave me a pang – John flexed his broad, capable hands like that when he perceived a threat. But that’s where the resemblance ended. This thug was nothing like my John.

“What’re you staring at, faggot?” Hulk moved into my personal space.

“Leave him alone.” The smuggler said without looking up.

I hadn’t moved, I still leaned idly against the bunk, eying him critically. But I tensed for his attack. He’d lead with his right – he’d be slow, but devastating if he managed to connect. Very little chance he’d connect.

“I said, leave him alone.” The smuggler’s voice had taken on an edge. 

Hulk grunted his frustration, but he backed off. 

“Go tell Vino.”

Hulk left slowly, trying to intimidate with his scowl.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I told the smuggler.

“I don’t like fighting in here.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be on your knees soon enough, English. But not for the likes of him.”

I sighed. “I’m a bit long in the tooth, don’t you think. Isn’t tender youth the preferred currency?”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I shan’t sell myself at all.”

The smuggler gave me a pointed look. “Better to sell than have it taken. And it will be taken.”

“Always a risk, smuggler.” I swung up onto my bunk aware of the up-and-comer’s eyes on me. “Or maybe I’ll skin whoever tries.”

I closed my eyes, listening to the smuggler giggle.

 

—-

 

Prison was both dangerous AND dull. 

There was NOTHING to do. There was no library, no exercise room, no work to occupy the hands let alone the brain. There was one decrepit telly in the common room and one chess set with rocks and pennies standing in for some of the pieces. There was a frostbitten yard, an icy wind blowing through it relentlessly. I couldn’t run chemical experiments. There were no puzzles here to solve, nothing with any challenge anyway. I couldn’t even pick a fight to amuse myself, even I had to admit it was too risky. Worst of all, I couldn’t go to my mind palace – it was too perilous to not be aware of my surroundings at all times.

I was BORED. And there were drugs EVERYWHERE.

In the common room I was enviously watching a toothless prisoner score oxy when I was approached by one of Vinokourov’s lieutenants. I was delighted – I needed a way into the gang and hadn’t expected an opportunity to begin insinuating myself so soon. I had to force myself not to grin.

“I fancy you.” He said and I cursed my utter stupidity. This wasn’t the start of a way in, this was sex, nothing more.

“Sod off.” 

“I don’t think you heard me, new blood. I fancy you!”

I looked down my nose at him. Manslaughter, I deduced. Bar fight. Been in prison at least five years. Left handed. He was big and well used to having his way. “What’s your name?” I asked.

That surprised him. “Nazer.” He told me.

“Sod off, Nazer.”

“Oi!” He grabbed at me and I let him catch me, let him drag me into a corner. I didn’t let him push me to my knees, though. I stayed at eye level as I gripped his balls and twisted them. He tried to shove me away, but I wrapped my other arm around his neck.

“If you think...” I said into his ear. “...that I’m giving it up to a bottom-feeding twat like you, you are quite mistaken.” I let go of him and he dropped to the floor, clutching his balls. 

I left the common room, very aware of Nazer’s mates assessing me – assessing him. I was lucky he’d tried it alone. If I didn’t find a way into some protection soon, there would be a group of them coming for me and I wouldn’t be able to fight them off.

In my cell, I lay on my bunk, tense, waiting for Nazer to come for revenge. Or for someone else to come. There were so many threats. It was impossible to map them all.

That night the up and comer in my cell offered me drugs for sex.

It was more tempting than I like to admit. Getting high would have made the whole ordeal almost tolerable. Drugs would blot out my nightmares and dull the aching boredom. I’d bought drugs on my knees before, back when I was using so much I’d run through my annuity before months end. I wasn’t proud of it, nor was I especially ashamed. It just was. 

But Vinokourov wouldn’t be interested in a junkie whore. And Vinokourov was why I was here.

More importantly, John would be disappointed. John would be hurt. More for the drugs than the sex, probably, but both would upset him. If he was still waiting for me 

If I’d never met John this would be easier. If I’d never met John, the sex would be nothing to me – a much needed distraction. If I’d never met John, drugs would be a temptation, but not so very fraught with sentiment. If I’d never met John... I couldn’t bring myself to think about it any longer, let alone wish it...

I needed to stay sober.

 

—-

 

“You work for me, English, ok.” The smuggler informed me one day. He’d been watching me for weeks.

I sighed. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Get down here.”

I sighed again and slid down from my bunk, affecting bored irritation. Inside I was giddy.

“Take this to B block. Give it to Aleksander.  
Not bald Aleksander, give it to hairy Aleksander.” He said, handing me a small plastic bag that I was certain contained heroin. “Make sure he pays you! 2,000 tenge.”

“Fine.” I said, calculating instantly that a hit of heroin cost £4.45 here, and slouched out of our cell. I idly wondered how many deliveries I’d have to make to earn £4.45.

Clearly this delivery was a test. Could I navigate the byzantine layout of the prison? Could I go somewhere I had no business being and get out again without calling attention to myself? Could I locate the correct Aleksander? Could I get the payment? All of it? Could I avoid being robbed of the drugs or the money? Could I bring the correct amount back? Could I be trusted to deliver the drug instead of going off and using it myself?

The latter was the only one apt to be any sort of challenge.

Obviously I passed. 

Returning to the cell, the political in the lower bunk was waiting for me, bristling. I knew he had been the smuggler’s delivery boy and now I saw that my good fortune was his bad.

“Thought you didn’t like fighting in here.” I said to the smuggler.

He simply shrugged. I tossed the roll of bills at him – he plucked it from the air and started counting it.

I ducked.

The political had thrown a punch. I came up on the far side of his arm, twisted behind him and shoved him in the direction his momentum was already carrying him. His fist hit the metal bedpost and he grunted in pain. He swung around, swearing, but I’d danced out of range. 

“Problem?” I asked calmly, goading him.

I’d hoped that he’d charge at me, but saw that he wouldn’t. He shifted his weight and bounced closer, fists up, looking for an opening. He feinted with his left – obvious – but struck out hard with his right.

I dodged the punch again, leaning away. I hit him in the kidney as I swung around behind him and I boxed his ears before he could correct and turn to face me.

He grabbed for my neck. I blocked and punched him in the throat then smashed the heel of my palm up into his nose. It crunched and I slipped from his stunned grasp.

“Are we done?” I asked him, going for indifference but sounding sharp. 

He was panting, his nose streaming blood. He was shorter than I and broader. Not for the first time, I wished I had John’s training – he made subduing villains look effortless. Better yet, I wished I had John. He handled situations like this so efficiently. I would have to go a few more rounds before my attacker gave it up.

This time he stepped in close and though I dodged, his fist connected with my cheek. It was glancing, catching me at an angle, not nearly as hard as he’d intended. But hard enough to throw me off balance. He pressed his advantage hitting me in the gut, bending me forward and stealing my air.

I had the presence of mind to head butt him, catching him in the mouth. It gave me the opportunity to stagger backwards a few steps where I gasped for oxygen and watched him.

Were I him, I would have followed and tried to take advantage of my breathlessness. But I was lucky, he took a moment to check his mouth and bend a tooth back into place, swearing imaginatively.

As I caught my breath, I heard the smuggler laughing. I wasn’t happy to be providing his entertainment, but the fight would improve my status – if I won.

I waited for my opponent to come at me again.

 

—-

 

Delivering for the smuggler was the perfect job. It gave me a measure of safety – interfering with the smuggler’s business wasn’t good for anyone. No one paid attention if I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be – I pretty much had the run of the place. I became a familiar face, part of the vast prison organism, a common sight dismissed as unimportant. I delivered to every block, every faction, every cell. This included Vinokourov’s gang. 

It didn’t hurt that the former delivery boy, the man who’d attacked me, had ended up in the spartan infirmary whilst I appeared unscathed. After I broke his knee with a vicious kick, the fight was over. Unfortunately for him, I had a reputation for sadism to live up to. (Fortunately for both of us, I didn’t have a skinning knife.) Before the smuggler had someone pull me off him, I dislocated his broken knee to get him screaming, broke a few of his ribs with savage kicks and scuffed his head with the heel of my boot, opening a cut that bled all over the place. It did not appear that I was being careful to avoid damaging his head or internal organs.

Now I had a bottom bunk near the window, a bit of shelf space, a small income and some amount of security – rape was always a threat. I was feeling positive – maybe I could wrap all this up quickly and get out of this vile hell hole! I could go home! 

I stalked the gang, gathering information. It was apparent that there was strife, insecurity, but it was several weeks before I became enough a part of the background to discover why: dismantling Moriarty’s network had cut off key funding and support. Vinokourov was last man standing. He was holding things together admirably – trying to build new relationships to replace what I had already eliminated. But his power was disintegrating.

He still had to be neutralised. Vinokourov was too effective and knew too much about Moriarty and his network to be ignored. I simply had to work out how.

Perhaps the ease with which I’d gained status and gathered crucial information made me complacent. Perhaps Vinokourov was forewarned and my growing hair and pale eyes were too distinctive, despite the brown beard and glasses I wore. Perhaps I was thinking of going home, seeing John, when I should have been on my guard. 

I knew I was in trouble the moment I walked into the room – the very air was pregnant with it. Not to mention the the way the thugs glanced at each other, the way one shifted nervously and another stood tense.

This was it. They were going to rape me. They would beat me and then take turns violating me. They might invite their friends to join in ...

I ran, even though I knew it was fruitless. I was grabbed and shoved painfully against the wall before I took two steps. I struggled, but I was held fast – a man on each arm, another behind me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. They turned me to face the room.

I cowered, my eyes downcast and my arms limp, affecting surrender. But I was searching for an opening – any opening. I wouldn’t make this easy for them.

The leader walked forward, it was Nazer claiming his revenge at last. He smiled unpleasantly and nodded to the man behind me. Something heavy hit my head – I was surprised and vastly relieved that it seemed they weren’t going to rape me after all. My last thought as I lost consciousness was John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter – back to London and John and Mary. And Sebastian Moran and his sniper rifle...


	12. Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Seb Moran for a date. Then meets up with Mary for several.

JOHN

 

“Hello.” I said, standing up and extending my hand.

Seb Moran took it, but he didn’t do anything so formal as shake – he held my hand, his fingers caressing intimately. “John.” He said, smiling at me.

“Sit.” I said and he relinquished my hand. “What can I get for you?”

“Gold Watch.” He said. “Something peaty, yeah? Neat.”

I nodded and made my way to the bar. We weren’t at a pub, I’d suggested a rather posh cocktail bar with a reputation for attracting a gay crowd – not my usual sort of place. I wasn’t comfortable here, which I hoped would cover that I wasn’t at all comfortable with Moran.

I ordered a Lagavulin and grudgingly ponied up the inflated price. I carried it back towards our table – and walked straight into Officer Vaachaspati. “John!” He said, clapping my shoulder like we were old friends. “I haven’t seen you in an age!” His hand slid off my shoulder to rest on my back.

“N-no.” I croaked. This couldn’t be a coincidence – I cursed Lestrade. He could have warned me he sent this git! I scoured my memory for his name. “Ravi... it’s been, erm, a couple years... oh...”

Moran had stood up, effectively joining us. “Seb.” I handed him his whiskey. “This is Ravi.” Officer Vaachaspati’s eyes travelled the length of Moran’s frame and he smirked with appreciation. His hand felt hot on my back.

Seb nodded, shooting daggers at him. “Tom Hanks.” He muttered, thanking me for the drink. “How do you know John, mate?” He asked Vaachaspati with a distinct lack of warmth.

“Mutual friend.” I supplied quickly.

Ravi laughed briefly. “We share an ex, John and I. Lovely to meet you, Seb.” He turned away from Moran. “Call me, John.” He said to me his hand leaving my back only to drag knuckles across my chest. “It’s been too long.” He leaned in pressing his cheek to mine and air kissing. “Have fun tonight.”

“Erm, yeah. Bye.” I looked at Moran as Vaachaspati wended his way through the crowd and rolled my eyes.

Moran actually grinned. “Wanker.” He said.

“Yeah... I’m not sure how he got the idea we were mates.”

“He wants a zig and zag.” Moran posited.

“With me? I don’t think so.”

“He does.” Moran said with certainty. “He’s gagging for a zig.”

I laughed. “If that’s in any way true, he’ll be sadly disappointed.”

“Good.” Moran said.

I met his eye. His chilly gaze had warmed. It didn’t smolder, but the ice had melted.

I panicked a little. “I’m sorry... I’m rather... pissed off at that git.” I shook my head. “We didn’t ‘share an ex.’ He was... he was BRIEFLY acquainted with my boyfriend years before I met him. It’s in no way equivalent.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Moran asked, a touch of frost returning to his eyes.

“Erm, I did. Yeah... I, erm, lost him. I know you lost someone too, Seb. That’s why I thought... well, you’d understand.” I bent my head and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all this up.”

I felt his hand touch mine where I held my pint glass. “John, it’s Robin Hood, mate. It hits you funny sometimes, innit.”

“Yeah. Ta.”

“No Fred McMurrays.”

I made an effort to gather myself, to smile. “I thought I’d be better company.” I cleared my throat. “Maybe we should do this another time.”

Moran took a slug of his whisky. “Tell me about him.” 

I wanted to refuse, but his quiet request had an edge of melancholy I found difficult to ignore.

“He was brilliant and beautiful and I still can’t believe he’s gone ...” I stopped. The wave of desolation that washed over me was real – god, I missed Sherlock so much! “Seb... I thought I was ready... I’m not. I’m sorry, I’m just not. I have to go.” I almost ran from the table, grabbing my coat and pushing through the after-work crowd. 

 

—-

 

If I wasn’t watched before, I was certainly being watched now. And, I had to assume, my phone would be monitored. Leaving the cocktail bar, trudging home in the misty twilight drizzle, I didn’t dare contact Lestrade. 

Chances were he’d seen the entire exchange at the cocktail bar anyway – and if he hadn’t, Vaachaspati and the rest of the surveillance team would fill him in. They MUST have gotten a photo good enough to show the dry cleaner...

I really WAS put out about Ravi Vaachaspati, that miserable twat. I couldn’t blame him for fucking Sherlock nor for wanting to fuck him again – I wouldn’t blame anyone for that. No, Officer Vaachaspati’s sin was much greater: he’d caught Sherlock’s attention, however briefly, and that tasted like bile in my mouth.

However, I was not nearly as upset as I’d affected with Seb Moran. It was a good excuse – better than any other I’d come up with – to cut short our date. I didn’t want to touch Moran, let alone kiss him. I couldn’t even imagine doing more.

I’d been told often enough that I was a terrible actor, that I couldn’t possibly hope to convince anyone that water was wet, let alone fool a villain. But I didn’t think I was in danger of being called out by Moran – I strongly suspected he was as uninterested in me as I was in him. Had I not found an excuse to cut the date short, I was confident he would have.

But I was relieved not to be testing that theory. Nothing would be less awkward than two men pretending to enjoy kisses that turned both their stomachs. And if Moran was who I thought he was... the only kisses I wanted to give him were with my gun.

 

——

 

The next morning found me up early and off to Stamford’s rugby league. I’d gone the last few weeks and Lestrade and I had agreed that meeting there would not attract the attention that another sort of meeting certainly would.

This required Greg to play rugby.

“Sodding hell, John.” Greg cried as I reached a hand down to help him to his feet. “Couldn’t you play footie or cricket? Something civilized?” He was bleeding and had mud the length of his left side and the match had just begun.

I laughed and pushed him into the scrum, ignoring his protests.

Lestrade wasn’t the absolute worst rugger I’d ever played with, he had too much spirit for that, but it was a close thing.

Afterwards, we had a quick wash in the field house, stripping off muddy kit and boots and standing under the freezing cold showers as long as we could stand, then we marched with the lads to the Badger & Swan.

Greg’s shell-shocked expression lasted until I handed him a pint.

“John... that was barbaric.”

I laughed, watching him drain off half the glass. “That was rugby.”

“I will never understand.”

I took a slug of my own lager and led Lestrade to a quiet corner. “So? Did you get a photo of Moran? What did the dry cleaner say?”

“We did – that poncey cocktail bar you picked was perfect. Did you know most of those mirrors are one-way glass?”

“What? No.”

“We got photos – good enough to frame and hang over the mantle.” His phone buzzed and Lestrade looked at it, his brow furrowing.

“Greg?”

“I took Moran’s photo to the dry cleaner last night. It’s the same man, he‘s certain.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “So you have him. You have Moran in custody.”

“Er, no.” Lestrade sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Vaachaspati was picking him up, but...”

“That ...that knob lost him? Jesus, Greg! I don’t like him but I didn’t think he was incompetent...”

Lestrade cut off my rant. “Vaachaspati didn’t lose him.” He held up his phone. “He was stabbed last night, multiple times. Just got word, he died a few minutes ago in hospital.”

“Fuck.” I breathed, chastened. 

“Moran hasn’t been back to his flat. We’re watching it, but looks like he’s gone to ground. John, every copper in the city has his photo. If he’s still in London, we’ll find him.”

I doubted that. 

 

—-

 

Midweek I had a text from Mary.

-your date with Seb must have gone well, I haven’t heard from either of you for days.-

I frowned. I was undecided about Mary. It seemed likely that the mugging had been a setup, a way of making contact. A way for Moran – who we knew from the dry cleaner knew Moriarty – to insert himself into my life.

If Moran were part of Moriarty’s organisation, it stood to reason that he would have heard about what happened in New York – the decimation of that cell and the disappearance of the leadership. Had they told Moran, before they died, that Sherlock was there? Did he know Sherlock was alive? Or did he simply suspect? Did he want to meet me to gauge if I knew anything? Or to draw Sherlock out?

It was impossible to know what Moran’s motivations were. But Mary... it was difficult for me to imagine her conspiring with the likes of Moran. She very well could be an innocent pawn.

*you haven’t talked to Seb?* I replied.

-No. I’m hoping you’ve been keeping him too busy...-

I called her. 

“John!” She sounded pleased. “Spill it, mate. How’d it go?”

“Erm... not so good. Totally my fault. He must not think too kindly of me right now. I’ve been meaning to apologise...”

“What happened?!”

“He really didn’t tell you?”

“I haven’t talked to him.”

I sighed. “I was looking forward to seeing Seb.” I told her. “Getting to know him better. I really was... but once there...” I paused searching for the right words. “This whole thing was just a bad idea.”

“You didn’t get on, then?”

“What? No – it wasn’t Seb. Seb’s great. It’s me... Mary...”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed again. “I think I told you... I wasn’t looking for anything like this because I was still hung up on someone else... you said you understood.”

“Yes.”

“I thought I was over it, over the worst part... but I’m just not. I never should have asked Seb out. I’m just... just exhausted of feeling like shit.” 

“Seb, of all people, would understand.”

“I don’t know, Mary... I walked out on him almost as soon as he arrived. I was... ridiculous...”

“John, you’re not ridiculous!”

“Ugh... I really am... enough about me. I’m sick of me. How are you, Mary? Tell me something interesting.”

She laughed. “My life isn’t interesting, John. Meeting you the way I did, that’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

“That’s the sort of ‘interesting’ no one needs.”

“Speaking of which, I have to be in court next week... you?”

“Yeah... I got a call about that – Thursday?”

“Uh huh. Want to grab lunch first?”

“Oh, brilliant. Indian Garden is over that way, isn’t it?”

 

—-

 

The weekend came and Lestrade warily showed up for rugby again. He was still sore and a touch gimpy from the week before, so I did him a favour and sat him on the bench for most of the match. He looked more grateful than dignity should allow.

In the Badger afterwards, I cornered him impatiently. But he had no news. Moran was still at large.

I’d had the curtains drawn tightly in 221b since the dinner party – I didn’t fancy Seb Moran staring at me through his rifle’s scope. But the longer he was out there, the harder it became to quell my fears – I found myself pulling the shades closed at work and wanting to check over my shoulder every three steps when I walked outdoors. I fantasized about him staring at my heat signature in the flat through an infra-red scope...

I was in this state of twitchy paranoia on Thursday when I met Mary for lunch. I was certain she’d see right through me, but she was herself agitated.

“I’m worried about Seb.” She told me. “We were supposed to have dinner last Friday and he didn’t show up. He didn’t even text. He’s not answering his mobile at all. I went by his flat, but no one answered and the mail is all piled up. I asked Cam and some of our other friends – no one has heard from him for almost two weeks! Have you, John? Has he texted or have you talked to him?”

“Erm, no. I haven’t talked to him since our, erm, date.”

“I’m afraid... John, I’m afraid something happened to him.” She seemed legitimately distraught. I patted her arm.

“He’s never done anything like this before?” I asked.

“No. It’s completely unlike him! He texts me almost every day. And he’s never stood me up!” Her lip trembled and I knew she was trying to hold back tears. I took her hand – but I was thinking of Ravi Vaachaspati lying in a filthy alley, slowly bleeding out from gut wounds.

“Have you talked to the police? Filed a missing persons?”

“Do you think I should?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” I said. If she WEREN’T in it with Moran, she might be able to give the police some idea where to look for him.

“Cam has the spare key to his flat. I was going to meet him there after court... I’m so afraid we’ll find him there... dead.”

I should be so lucky! “Well...” I said slowly. “That’s not impossible... but it’s much more likely he had a family emergency or something and was called away suddenly.”

“He doesn’t have any family.”

“Are you sure? A few months ago I had to drop everything to help out my sister. I didn’t even tell work – had to ask a friend to do it while I was out of town...” This wasn’t strictly true – I’d been with Sherlock in the Japanese suite. But Harry’s drinking was my cover story – and it was a good one. “Seb could have gone to help an aunt... or a cousin...” I was blatantly fishing now.

“Maybe...” Mary clutched at my hand. “Would you – if you’re not busy – would you come with me to Seb’s flat tonight?”

“Mary, I’m the last person he’ll want to see.” Going alone into Moran’s flat with Mary and dead-eyed Cam didn’t sound like a particularly intelligent thing to do.

“It’s just... you’re a doctor. And you were in Afghanistan, you’ve seen... terrible things, I’m sure.”

“Yeah. Too much.”

“If Seb’s hurt or... you’d know what to do.”

“Maybe.” I said. “But calling 999 would likely be more helpful.”

“I’m sorry.” Mary said, staring at her hands. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s fine. Mary, it’s fine.”

“I’m just so worried.”

 

—-

 

I DID end up going to Moran’s flat with Mary. But only because Lestrade was in court and I recruited him to join us. Mary couldn’t very well turn him away after all her fretting. She seemed exceedingly grateful to have him along.

Cam, on the other hand, narrowed his dead eyes when he saw the three of us on Moran’s doorstep.

“Cam, you remember John, of course. And this is Inspector Lestrade – he helped me after I was mugged. He was in court today too and I thought if there was any trouble...”

“Of course.” Cam said silkily. “Thank you for coming, Inspector. I hope we are making a mountain out of a – how do you say – molehill.”

“I hope so too.” Lestrade said, sticking out his hand. “Cam...?” 

“Cameron Magnussen.” Cam supplied as they shook. 

Cam shook my hand too, his limp fingers icy. “Good to see you again, John.” He said, his voice flat.

“I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Of course.” Cam stepped up and unlocked Moran’s front door. 

I wish I could say we found Moran lying dead in a pool of blood, but we had no such luck. The flat was uninhabited. If Moran had been by to collect personal items – clothes, money, toiletries – there was no sign. The only thing that wasn’t where it was supposed to be was Moran’s military sniper rifle. Of that there was no sign. 

“Why do you stare at the guns, John?” Cam asked. I hated the sound of my name in his emotionless voice.

I hadn’t planned to tell Cam – only Lestrade – but there was nothing for it. “One’s missing.” I said. “The one he showed me at dinner the other night.”

“Stolen, do you think?”

I shrugged. “I’d expect a burglar to take more than one gun. They’re all valuable – not to mention the telly, the silver and...” I gestured. “...everything else.”

“Strange.”

“It is, yeah.” The flat gaze he fixed on me made me want to squirm. I forced myself to stand still. “Greg.” I called Lestrade over to show him the missing weapon. 

I was relieved when Cam’s attention strayed from me. Half the time his eyes were on me, I had the distinct impression he wasn’t looking at me as much as he was accumulating and assessing data. Sherlock did much the same, but Sherlock’s attention didn’t feel malignant. Sherlock was interested in data to solve mysteries and puzzles. To keep himself from being bored, a state his restless genius couldn’t bear. Cam wasn’t bored. I was certain, Cam was deeply engaged using data he gathered to manipulate and cause strife. 

It struck me suddenly that Cam had the unfeeling eyes of a psychopath. There was no comparison to Sherlock’s quicksilver gaze – when I looked into his eyes Sherlock couldn’t hide his vast wells of sentiment...

If Anderson had ever seen Cam’s eyes, he could never have accused Sherlock of being a psychopath.

 

—-

 

Mary kept in touch as the weeks passed. We started meeting regularly for coffee or pints, her worry about Moran a constant undercurrent.

And I have to admit, I liked spending time with Mary. She was sweet and smart and pretty. If I teased her, she enjoyed it – and enjoyed giving as good as she got. If I complained, she listened and tried to help. When she expressed her fears about Seb Moran, she seemed grateful for my advice. I felt like I’d made a friend. 

I was still suspicious, of course. But I was leaning towards her being an unwitting pawn of Moran and Cam Magnussen, chosen for her innocent appeal.

Of Cam Magnussen there was little to say. Lestrade said he had no form. There was no reason to be suspicious of him other than his association with Moran. Lestrade had no excuse to watch him and lacked the manpower even if he did. 

It was frustrating. 

“Tell me about him.” Mary said one night after a few drinks, touching my hand. Possibly we’d had a few too many drinks. “Tell me about your Sherlock.”

Where to start? “Erm, what do you want to know?”

She shrugged. “How you met. How you fell in love. You know, the usual.”

“Well....” I said slowly, draining my glass and signaling for another. “After I was shot, I got sick. I was pretty out of it for a long time. I ended up discharged – invalided. I was still weak, still recovering... it was a shock, going from a war zone where I was needed, where I was a surgeon... to London where I had nothing. I sustained some nerve damage from the injury that meant I couldn’t perform surgery any more. I wasn’t a doctor. I wasn’t a soldier. I wasn’t needed. I’m not complaining, I’m just trying to explain how it was.” Mary put a sympathetic hand on my arm. “I was trying to reconcile myself to this new life in which nothing ever happened. I was depressed. Obviously.” 

I remembered how awful I’d felt, trying desperately to bear up under the crushing realisation that the part of my life that was exciting was over. That the years stretching ahead of me would all be dull, colourless, stultifying. I had nightmares every night. Waking up gasping, sweating, certain I’d just been shot... that I was going to die... and that was the most interesting thing that ever happened. I thought about using my gun – the army’s gun that I had neglected to return – to end the bottomless nothingness...

“Then I met him. He was incredible. Just an astonishing genius. One look and he knew... everything ...about me. And he changed everything. He went out of his way... he did things purposely to make my life better. This amazing person... no reason he should be interested in ME at all. But he was. 

“How could I not fall in love with him?”

“That’s beautiful, John.”

“Yeah. Erm... “ I felt embarrassed – and suddenly worried I might give away too much. “What about you? Tell me about your bloke.”

She hesitated so long, I thought she wouldn’t say anything. I pushed my pint away – I’d drunk enough, I decided.

“I was orphaned when I was fourteen.”

“Mary.” I was appalled. “That must have been terrible.” It was my turn to lay a comforting hand on her arm.

“It wasn’t great. When you say you lost everything, John, that you you felt like you were nothing – I understand. I completely understand. Except you made something of yourself first. You made yourself a doctor.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Mary cut me off. 

“After you rescued me, and you were so nice to me. I googled you.”

I sighed inwardly. Of course she had. “You saw that stupid profile.” I said. The Sun had done a whole sidebar on me after Sherlock found that kidnapped dignitary. ‘The Man Beside The Man.’ Harry had thought it was hysterical. I got dozens of emails from mates, congratulating me on coming out – about half of them serious. I remember thinking ‘this has gotten out of hand!’ I pulled away from Sherlock. Not a lot, but enough. I stopped touching him casually. Stopped being so available. I got myself a girlfriend and spent as much time at her place as possible. If I’m honest, that’s when Sherlock started acting depressed – and refusing to talk to me about it. I was too stupid to see the connection until now.

“That story wasn’t very accurate.” I told Mary. “I wasn’t... we weren’t together then. Not romantically.”

She nodded. “It was in The Sun, I figured half if it was made up and the other half hyperbole.”

“Just about.” I sighed.

“But the part that stood out to me, the part I BELIEVED, John, was about your family: you lost your father young; you grew up on a council estate outside London; you got through Uni and medical school on merit scholarships. John, you made yourself a doctor from sheer force of will. And not just a doctor, a trauma surgeon. You said you had no idea what Sherlock saw in you – well, I do. That he loved you is more proof of his genius to me than anything else.”

“Oh.” I said. “Mary...” She winced, realising the transparency of her feelings, and turned away into her drink. 

“I was in a children’s home until I was eighteen...” She resumed her story without looking at me. “Then I was on my own. I was living in a squat with a bunch of other people, waiting tables when I could. Getting high. I was nothing and if had been up to me I would have stayed nothing.”

I made a sound of protest, but she ignored me. I touched her and felt how she trembled. “Mary, come on.” I murmured, folding her into my arms. She was so small and soft and warm. It felt good. I had been lonely for so very long.

She sighed and relaxed, leaning into me. “John.” She murmured and raised her face. When she pressed her lips to mine, I didn’t pull away.

“Doctor Watson!”

I jumped back at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, pushing Mary off me. I blushed red to my roots as I faced him. 

“You’re needed.” He snapped and turned on his heel.

I ran after him, Mary falling from my mind entirely, supplanted by panic. “What’s happened?!” I cried. “Mycroft!” I followed him out of the pub and into the black car that idled at the curb. It started to move before I’d got the door shut. “Is Sherlock ok?! Mycroft! Tell me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Is Mary an innocent? Is she falling for John? Or is she Moriarty’s creature, in league with Moran? 
> 
> Why does Mycroft need John so suddenly?


	13. In Vinokourov’s Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains multiple references to rape, gang rape, torture and drug abuse. If this is too disturbing, please skip this chapter.

SHERLOCK 

 

“Do you have it?!” I demanded, hearing the panic in my voice. “Did you bring it?!” I could tell from his body language that he had it, but I couldn’t not ask.

Nazer stroked my matted hair. “Course I did, pet.” He was apt to be affectionate when we were alone.

“Give it to me... please...” I forced myself to stop begging – not for my dignity, I had not a scrap of that left. I stopped because I knew Nazer didn’t like it. He was withholding if I begged too much.

“Have a wash first. You’re filthy.”

I wanted to weep – I NEEDED it! Didn’t he understand?! I was in pain! My entire body ached for it! My skin tingled unpleasantly and my stomach was cramping. I tried to stand up, but my limbs were clumsy and weak. Nazer yanked me up by my arm and I quickly suppressed my yelp of surprise.

“Here he said. This will help.” He carefully laid out a line of cocaine and handed me a rolled 100 tenge note. The sight of the drug calmed me, energised me. My weakness and incoordination disappeared. I took the tenge in determined fingers and bent to the line, snorting it quickly. 

I tilted my head back, feeling the rush. “I need... I need another...” I said.

Nazer scoffed. “Wash first!” He said. “And clean your teeth. You’re disgusting.”

I dithered over his toiletries, trying to decide what I needed. Soap – soap was good. 

Nazer made an impatient noise and stood up. I cowered – he was prone to lashing out when frustrated. But he just threw some things into a mesh bag, flung a towel over my shoulder and pushed me out of his cell. 

“Hurry up! Don’t make me have to come find you.”

The cocaine was kicking in, energy and clarity spiking through me. I resented that I had to waste it in the shower. But I knew better than to disobey. The line of coke wouldn’t last long and I’d be miserable again soon.

I was relieved to be alone in the shower – I wouldn’t have to navigate the slaps and blows that accompanied the taunting gang members. Or worse. At best I was a joke, a punchline. I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t regret that.

The water stung my back. The welts had mostly scabbed over, but one was infected. I knew because Nazer had obtained an ointment that he spread on it. Sometimes he was kind. He had painstakingly straightened my broken fingers and splinted them, winding strips of cotton he’d torn from a bed sheet around and around them. 

I wore it still. It was sodden and heavy on my hand, and I was reminded that it ached. I would forget again in the agony of withdrawal.

I washed my hair quickly and rinsed it for a long time. I hated the scent of prison shampoo. Nazer’s pillow stank of it. I longed to bury my face in a pillow that smelled of John...

I put that thought away – I didn’t delete it, I couldn’t bear to delete anything of John’s. But I folded it up and put it in a cupboard. I locked the cupboard. It was full of thoughts that, sober, made me face the full extent of my misery and debasement. I pulled them out whilst I floated on heroin, letting their beauty and joy carry me far from this wretched place. 

I cleaned my teeth and spat a mouthful of blood. I was feeling twitchy. I couldn’t stand still very long. I caught sight of someone in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself for a long moment. One of my eyes was still black and swollen, the bruises extending down into my matted beard – the left eye, which made sense as Nazer was right-handed. My cheeks were hollow and my hair, even freshly washed, was dull and lank. My pupils were dark with artificial energy, and frenetic with need.

Did Mycroft know I’d been compromised? He was supposed to have a guard or two in his pocket, but I hadn’t found them. And I would have known them on sight. Had my brother abandoned me here? Did he know I’d succumbed to drugs once again and washed his hands of that pathetic man in the mirror?

I set aside those thoughts and hurried back to Nazer’s cell knowing he didn’t like to be kept waiting. 

He was sitting on his bunk, looking at me speculatively. I knew instantly that he wasn’t going to give me the heroin now. I forced back the rage – experience had taught me that attacking him wouldn’t work. I couldn’t take it from him by force, not in the condition I was in. And even if I did, where would the next hit come from? Another keeper wouldn’t show me any kindness. And if by some miracle I got away, I couldn’t buy it myself – I couldn’t pay the smuggler. I’d have to find someone willing to trade for it ... the whole process would be exhausting in the extreme. And I’d have to repeat it every time I needed a hit. No, Nazer had proven to be a reliable supplier. Better to stay close and do what I could to appease him.

“Get dressed.” He commanded. “We’re going to the mess.”

“I’m not hungry.” I said automatically. I didn’t want food. I didn’t want to be around all those people. I could barely tolerate Nazer’s cell mates.

“You’re too skinny.” He said. “I don’t like it. If you aren’t pretty anymore, why would I waste good drugs on you?”

I almost burst into tears of frustration. If he would just GIVE ME WHAT I NEEDED everything would be fine.

“Get dressed.” Nazer repeated. “And I’ll give you a little skag and another line. Then we’re going to eat.”

I got dressed. I skipped underwear and zipped myself into a prison coverall. I pulled on my coat then wrestled with my socks and boots. I hadn’t worn my boots in days. I struggled to remember how to tie them. Then struggled to do it with the splint on my hand.

Nazer waited until I was completely finished before he produced the bag of heroin. He measured out a pitifully small amount. I couldn’t suppress a noise of dismay.

“You want it or not?”

I wanted it. I got to work cooking it, pulling an arm out of my coat, tying it off. For once, I found a vein quickly. I sighed with relief as I felt it travel through my body, erasing all my troubles. All except the gnawing worry that it wasn’t enough.

Nazer had measured out two lines of cocaine this time and snorted one himself. Then he handed me the rolled tenge note and I snuffled it up.

I followed him to the mess hall. I lost track of time in Nazer’s cell, but it was obvious now it was the evening meal. Nazer had advanced himself in Vinokourov’s eyes, because he skipped the line and he was given a tray of food directly from the kitchen – only top lieutenants had that privilege. He spoke sharply to the kitchen worker and was grudgingly given another plate of boiled potatoes and turnips. He led me to Vino’s table and sat, pointing to the floor at his feet. I knelt. 

Nazer put the plate of potatoes in my hands. “Eat!” He hissed at me. I ate.

I listened desultorily to Vino and his men talking. Hulk, my former cellmate, walked by and cuffed me with a rude snigger. He didn’t have the privilege of sitting at Vinokourov’s table, but he sat adjacent. He and his mates laughed at me, catcalling and making jokes. Someone threw something and it hit me in the back. 

Nazer turned to Hulk’s table and with three quiet words, shut them up. Muttering, they turned their backs on me.

Nazer nudged me. He held a morsel of food in front of me. I took it. Smelled it. It was ham! Part of a slice of actual baked ham. I looked up – this had to be a mistake. But Nazer just nudged me again. I devoured it. 

A minute later he gave me a hunk of bread – it had butter on it! I ate it in two bites. It was divine.

I kept my eyes on the floor the whole time, but I felt Vinokourov’s ugly pink gaze on me. He stared at me whenever I was in his presence.

I hadn’t deduced why yet. Vino didn’t want me – he’d been the first to fuck me and he hadn’t shown any particular interest beyond making sure it hurt. If he wanted me, he’d have me. I’d be in one of his cells, not Nazer’s. Nazer wanted me, that obvious. He was even, occasionally, tender with me, stroking my ribs and legs where the caning hadn’t ripped my flesh. Sometimes he instructed me to kiss his neck and chest (never his mouth, HE wasn’t a fag).

Vinokourov stared at me for some other reason. After the first round of rapes, I’d been beaten and tortured – Vino had questions he wanted me to answer. I had deleted the suffering I’d endured, remembering only the cold facts. I had told him everything of course, but I’d held out, I made him work for it. Then I wove wild stories of hidden adversaries, men bent on vengeance, of the inevitable downfall of his empire in amongst the truth. I’d talked enough that he didn’t know what was real and what was fiction. 

Nazer himself had been the torturer, and I was grateful for it after a fashion. He hadn’t pulled his punches – he’d mulched my face with his fists, laid open my back with a bamboo cane, and had broken three of my fingers with stunning nonchalance. But he hadn’t used a knife. Or a blow torch. He hadn’t ruptured any organs. He hadn’t cut or gouged out pieces of me. Even in the middle of it, I was cognizant that Nazer was deliberately avoiding causing me permanent damage.

“Shezzer.” Nazer elbowed me and I remembered that that was my name here. I looked up. Vinokourov was speaking to me.

Vinokourov was pasty pale and ginger, his orange hair curling tightly, his eyebrows invisible and his eyes pink like a white rabbit’s. Despite this, he was hard – his face, his frame, his musculature, his expression, every part of him was hard. I respected his determined hardness even as I scoffed at his raging ego and intellectual limitations.

When Nazer had first dragged me in front of Vinokourov, I saw immediately he knew I had come to the prison to bring him down. I tried to turn that to my advantage – I could be a double agent. I spoke about how valuable I could be to him. I displayed my skills, showed how I could deduce secrets for him. “I can give you an edge no one else can.” I’d told him. “I’m a resource that shouldn’t be wasted.”

Then I stopped talking.

“That’s it, Shezzer? Nothing else to say for yourself?” Vino asked mildly.

“Why bother?” I said miserably. “You’ve made your decision. Nothing I say now will prevent this idiocy.”

Vinokourov’s eyes had narrowed. He approached me and I tried not to flinch. I was going to be tortured – and worse – no matter what, but I didn’t have to make it easy for them.

Now I slowly stood up from my place at Nazer’s feet, ham and potatoes churning in my stomach. I fixed my gaze on Vino’s chest, showing he had my complete attention without the challenge of looking him in the eye. My coked up mind began cataloging the warp and weft of his shirt. 

“Shezzer, your stay of execution is up tomorrow. Nazer here has applied for your execution to be postponed again. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

My execution. It was easy to forget about it – it would happen some indeterminate time in the future and before then there was heroin. But when I remembered – usually when I was painfully sober – it was a great comfort. I would die and the pain would stop and John would never see what I had become.

Did I have anything to say for myself? “No.” I said. “Do whatever you want.” I returned my gaze to the floor. My hands were greasy from the food.

Vinokourov laughed and his lieutenants joined him. “This from the man who spit in my face, who fought like a tiger! It took six men to hold him down! Six! All the while he vowed to destroy us! Destroy me. Look at him now. This isn’t a man. For the promise of a hit of skag, he’d suck our cocks right here in the mess.”

He was right. I would. When the relentless nightmare of withdrawal hit me, I would do anything for the sweet, sleepy ecstasy of heroin. Anything.

“I like him this way.” Vino proclaimed. “I like seeing him broken. Docile. He thought he could bring us down, now he’s nothing more than a plaything. A pet. You can have another three says, Nazer. Use him hard, I won’t delay a third time. In fact tonight, we’ll ALL use him. A little party to celebrate his continued existence.”

Vinokourov laughed again. I didn’t move, I simply began to pray, over and over, that Nazer would let me shoot up first.

 

—-

 

I couldn’t find a vein. I needed a vein! I’d cooked up the junk and carefully vacuumed it all up into my syringe. I’d tied the length of rubber tubing around my bicep... my vein had disappeared. 

I slapped my arm. It turned pink, the track marks stinging. Finally I found a vein I could use in my wrist. I inserted the needle into the little vessel and pushed down the plunger. I untied my bicep and set the tubing and the syringe aside.

I sighed and lay back as the heroin swept through me.

I was nude in bed and John was stroking his hand down my side lovingly. Oh John! So intriguing from the first moment I saw you. So angry, so lost. I wanted you then, wanted your hands on me, your mouth. But I never expected that you would hold my interest. That you would never bore me. I never expected to love you. 

I didn’t even know I was capable of loving so deeply, capable of caring so much, of feeling so happy – until you showed me, John.

Vaguely I was aware of being pushed onto my stomach and mounted. I deleted it.

I felt light and happy. I was with John and he loved me! We lay lazily in our bed in Baker Street, the linens pristinely white, sun slanting through the curtain illuminating a thousand dust motes... they danced in the sun and I flew over and danced with them, John’s hand in mine, John’s strong hand on my shoulder... John beside me. I wanted John beside me always...

I woke in the dark. For a second I was disoriented – why did our bedroom stink? Why was our bed so uncomfortable. Then I remembered. 

Nazer lay pressed against me, snoring. I automatically catalogued and dismissed the various aches in my body. They didn’t matter any more. Tonight was my execution. 

Vinokourov had taken great pleasure in telling me that I would be beheaded. I hadn’t reacted – Nazer had given me a few lines of coke to wake me from my fading heroin high, and my mind felt sharp. Sharper than it had in weeks. Vinokourov wanted me to be frightened. He wanted me to blanche and beg, to cower before him and plead for mercy, for my life.

I didn’t give him that pleasure. I was looking forward to death, looking forward to oblivion. No more violations, no more rough handling, no more cuffs or blows. No more scratching my twitchy skin raw. No more blow jobs – my jaw popped and creaked from sucking so much cock, my throat was raw. My arse... my arse didn’t bear thinking about. I was covered in welts and bruises, I was filthy, itchy and, at this point, almost certainly diseased, infected with an array of STDs. If my body were ever recovered – and knowing Mycroft, it would be – my blood would be a toxic stew.

Death would be a relief.

Not that I wasn’t sad. I had little hope that Mycroft could shield John from knowing what these past weeks had been like. It would upset John and I would give anything to spare him that. John had given me so much joy and all I’d given him in return is suffering.

If pleading with Vinokourov would keep John ignorant of my degradation, I would plead. I would be on my knees begging frantically. But there was nothing else I would beg for – not even a last hit of heroin. 

“I’m sorry.” Nazer said when he woke up. The hour was nigh.

“I’m not.” I told him. 

“I have skag for you. Not a lot, but it will help.”

“Good.” I thought about the timing, I didn’t want to shoot up too soon. “When are they coming?”

Nazer checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes. You could wash.” He was always trying to get me to wash.

“Why bother?”

He grunted. “I’m going to rinse off.” He said. He climbed over me and fiddled with his toiletries and towel. I closed my eyes until I heard him leave.

I had a minor jolt of panic – what if he didn’t get back in time for me to shoot up again? But I decided it didn’t matter. I wasn’t in withdrawal – wouldn’t be for several hours and I’d be dead long before then. It would be better to be high, I wanted to be high – but it wasn’t necessary. 

I forced myself to get up and find clothes. I wanted to wear my boots. I didn’t want to go to my death barefoot.

First I put on Nazer’s sweatpants. They were soft and comfortable and he loved them. If I wore them for my beheading, they’d be ruined for him, one way or another. I took a small, petty amount of pleasure from that. 

I painstakingly pulled on my socks and boots. Tying them was somewhat easier since I’d taken off the splints. No point in it now – and it had turned dark gray with filth. I pulled a t-shirt over my head and leaned back, letting myself nod off.

I woke to Nazer slapping my face. “They’re coming soon. You got to shoot up now, pet.” He actually looked anxious.

It was so strange, Nazer abused me as much – more – than the rest. He thought nothing of punching me or fucking me raw. But he also seemed to care, in his own stunted way, about my well-being. “You had a dog.” I said as I sparked the lighter under the spoon. “You had a dog you loved. You took care of it. Big dog... bull terrier.” The breed was a guess, but it was a good one. 

Nazer gawped at me and crossed himself. 

“I’m not a witch.” I told him wearily. “I’m not a fortune teller. It’s OBVIOUS that you loved your dog. You took good care if him.”

“How did you...?”

I scoffed impatiently. “Because you’ve tried to take care of me.” I sucked the liquid into the syringe and set it aside. I tied the rubber tubing around my bicep and started the search for a good vein. I glanced up at Nazer. If he expected me to bloody thank him for it, he could go to hell. But I had just enough appreciation for his care (for the heroin) not to say that out loud.

I injected the drug into my vein and pulled off the tubing. It was good. I laid back again and closed my eyes. “Don’t wake me until they get here.”

I floated away into John’s arms. I loved the way he kissed me – hungry and fierce, as if he wanted to consume me. I loved the feeling of his hands on my body, strong and so very capable. The pleasure he could wring from me with one hand alone! I loved the way he spoke to me, amazed at my deductions, challenging me to be better, full of desire... and the way he looked at me... with utter confidence. John believed in me, believed I could do anything...

They had come for me. I let them pull me to my feet. “I can walk.” I told them. “I’m not going to run. Where would I go?” I went with them, unbound.

I walked the gauntlet – it was cacophonous, all the men hooting and hollering. Vinokourov had a machete. I squinted at it, trying to discern if it was sharp enough to sever my head with one blow. One was highly preferable. 

Something hit me – something that felt like a freight train – and dropped me to the floor. I shook my head. When my vision cleared, I saw it was Hulk. Nazer and another man lifted me back up and Hulk slugged me again, his massive fist slamming into my gut. I felt something tear. I shut my eyes, it would be over soon. 

Another punch and I was choking on blood. Vino called him off impatiently. He didn’t want me too far gone for the execution. He wanted to have his fun with the machete.

The men dragged me forward to the block. Someone pulled my t-shirt off. I didn’t like that – I was so skinny and ugly now, covered in welts and sores. Even at the last, my vanity wouldn’t be denied. John would laugh...

“I’m sorry, John.” I murmured as they bent me over the block. “I’m so sorry I failed you.”

I let myself float, as they strapped me down, let John take me by the hand. This isn’t so bad, I thought, clinging to John, drifting with him...

Something jarred me awake. Something loud. There was shouting... I was irritated, couldn’t Vino just bloody get it over with!? Just cut my sodding head off! I was ready!

A cool breeze. That was wrong, we were deep in the prison, in the warmest part. It blew again, moving the fringe on my forehead. There was a lot of motion around me.

I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see anything those few seconds my head would live detached from my body. I just wanted to float away. Why couldn’t everyone shut up and let me float!?

Cold air prickled across my skin. Pop! Pop! Gunfire! Gunfire? 

Gunfire?

Only the guards had guns. But they wouldn’t come into Vinokourov’s territory. Not for me. 

More shouting. 

Hands... unstrapping me.... 

“No...” I wanted to cry with frustration. It had almost been over.

“Sherlock?”

“J-John!?” His hand was cool on my face. I could smell him, his hair tickled my cheek.

“Yes, it’s me, love. I‘ve got you.” John’s lips against my neck. “I’ve got you.”

This must be death. Or the long moment of the body dying when the brain hallucinates. Would John take me towards a bright light? I laughed a little hysterically. I hadn’t felt the blow... I’d expected to feel the machete...

“Over here!” John shouted. Then his lips bussed me again. “We’re getting you out of here.” More gunfire...

“SHIT!” John disappeared, swearing vividly. There was a noise like metal on metal. I opened my eyes and feet danced in my field of vision. Another clank-clank... the feet danced away. Clank... then a sickening THUNK.

More thunks, wet and ripe interspersed with words... Thunk! “Did!” Thunk! “This!” Thwup! “To!” Splut! “Him!” Splud. Splush...

A bright light in my face – I clamped my eyes closed and it shone gold through my eyelids. 

“Mr. Holmes! Can you hear me?!”

“Stupid question.” I mumbled.

“Base, we have the package. Repeat, we have the package.”

Hands lifted me and I was carried into the cold. I opened my eyes again. All I could see was the black cloth of a military uniform and flashes of light. It was jarring, painful, being carried this way. It was freezing.

“John?” I asked, but no one answered.

There was the thud thud thud of a helicopter and I was lifted and finally, FINALLY, laid on something soft. I barely felt them strapping me down... it was so soft... I let it envelope me, fold around me... John’s arms... maybe I was dead... that would be ok... as long as it was this soft...

 

—-

 

My joints hurt. My skin twitched restlessly. I ached all over and my stomach cramped. I retched. Someone put a cool flannel on my brow.

“Mr. Holmes? Can you tell me what you took?”

“Where am I?”

“You’re on an aeroplane, we’re taking you to Rammstein. To hospital. I’m Dr. Baehr.” 

“Oh.” I said. Not John. It had been so real, John’s hair against my face. Maybe I HAD died, briefly...

“I was supposed to die.” I told her. “John...” My stomach cramped again and I retched harder bringing up fluids. I was curled on my side and I wanted to curl in farther, hide myself. The flannel swiped over my face, cleaning the bile from my lips.

“What did you take, Mr. Holmes? What drugs?”

I opened an eye and looked at her. She was young, only a few years out of medical school, short hair, no makeup, military uniform. She wore a new necklace, it was sentimental but cheap and common, brassy...

“He’s not going to propose.” I told her.

“What?”

“The man who gave you that...” I spared one finger to point at her necklace. “...doesn’t want to marry you. Cut him loose.”

For a moment she was nonplussed. Then her features firmed decisively. “Tell me what you took.” She demanded.

“Heroin. Obviously.” My stomach cramped again and I couldn’t stifle a moan. “I want to die.”

“You aren’t going to die, Mr. Holmes. That’s not an option.”

I thought about that for a moment. I’d kicked a heroin habit once and it had been horrible ...total fucking hell... living completely in my body, base and animal ...and craving... sweating, crawling desperation.... I didn’t know if I could do it again. And John... John couldn’t see me like that... like this...

I sighed heavily – I just wanted to die. Living...it was arduous... laborious. It was hateful. I didn’t want to do it. “I need methadone.” I croaked bitterly.

“We don’t have methadone on the plane.” She said. “I need to examine you fully.”

“No.” I clutched the blanket around me. My boots were gone but I was relieved to realise I still wore Nazer’s sweatpants. “No exam.” I had an IV in my hand, the skin under the tape hurt. It was exhausting.

“I need to examine you, Mr. Holmes. You’re sick, you’ve been beaten...”

“I’m experiencing heroin withdrawal! Of course I’m sick. Are you a complete idiot? Give me morphine! I know you have morphine on this bloody plane!”

She left me alone and I heard her talking softly with someone else.

“Hurry up!” I shouted. She would give me the morphine. Opiate withdrawal was dangerous, they wouldn’t risk letting me go ‘cold turkey.’

I felt the IV move. “Are you doing it?” I demanded.

“Yes!” 

I sighed, relief heavy in my chest. There – I could feel it starting.

“I still need to examine you.” Dr. Baehr insisted.

“Give me minute.” I moaned. “Everything still hurts.”

She waited. The morphine was lovely, lighter, purer than the heroin. Abruptly my aches began to fade... then disappeared. I floated...

“Mr. Holmes, I’m going to examine you now.” I felt her roll me onto my back and then hands forced me to sit up. It made sense for an examination, but it hurt. I resented it. Someone pulled the blanket off me.

“Christ.” Someone, not the doctor, muttered. She shushed him. I felt her hands gently touch my back and I remembered the caning. 

“Infection here. And here.” The nurse noted. 

“We’re already giving him antibiotics. Clean them thoroughly.” I felt a stethoscope on my back, then on my chest.

“My hand.” I told her, lifting my left arm. “Broken fingers.” She examined it carefully and dictated some notes.

“We’ll have that x-rayed in hospital.” She ran her fingers over the track marks on both my arms dictating more notes.

She put her hands on my abdomen, saying something about ‘malnourishment,’ then palpitated my organs. I gasped at the sudden pain. “Something going on there.” She muttered, making notes. She continued to touch my belly, but more gently. “Contusions... possible internal bleeding. Prep some O negative.” 

“Oh!” The nurse exclaimed. “Lice.” He and Dr. Baehr reflexively stepped back. I chuckled softly. I couldn’t help myself.

“They’ll have to treat that at Rammstein.” The doctor said.

The nurse made a noncommittal noise and helped me lie back down. He cut Nazer’s sweatpants off my body. It was done before I could protest.. 

For a moment, the room was perfectly silent and still. I wondered what it was that made the rape so immediately obvious. Blood. I must be bleeding. I was grateful for the morphine – but even with it, I felt distress at being laid open for this scrutiny. I didn’t want this vulnerability. I didn’t want everyone to know. I wished Vinokourov had been faster with the machete. Or that Hulk had gotten in a few more punches. I wouldn’t be here, exposed.

Quietly she catalogued the injuries on my lower half, prodding and rolling me apologetically. Finally she stopped and the nurse swaddled me in warm, clean blankets. I curled up, hid my face, and slept.

 

—-

 

Rammstein was a kaleidoscope of activity – shining lights and motion in the darkness. I couldn’t sleep through it, but I curled on my cot and let it all happen. The morphine drip had stopped, and that worried me, but I wasn’t in pain yet and I felt confident of my ability to bully more from the doctors.

Dr. Baehr rode in the ambulance with me monitoring my vitals and showing her notes to another doctor. If he introduced himself, I missed it. 

“This is goodbye.” She said when the ambulance stopped. Good luck, Mr. Holmes.”

I touched her sleeve and she looked back at me. “Seriously.” I told her. “You deserve better. Cut him loose.”

She looked younger for a second, unguarded. Then her features firmed and she nodded at me once. Then she was gone.

Inside hospital I heard Mycroft’s imperious voice. I stifled a sob – I hadn’t thought to hear him again. His orders and directives sounded like childhood... like home ... I steeled myself for his scrutiny, knowing I’d see my failure in his eyes. It didn’t matter – much. As long as he didn’t tell John, it didn’t matter.

But Mycroft didn’t appear. I was whisked down hallways and through doors, the new doctor from the ambulance jogging beside me.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked him, starting to feel uneasy. “Where’s Mycroft?”

“We’re taking you for imaging and then into surgery, Mr. Holmes. Your brother is here – you’ll see him afterwards.”

“Surgery for what?” Then I remembered Dr. Baehr’s exam and the pain in my abdomen. “Of course, stupid.” I chastised myself. “How long will imaging take? I need morphine. I’ll be sick without it.”

“Dr. Baehr explained your situation. You’ll be taken care of.”

I wanted to demand when – WHEN – would I be given morphine, but it was obvious from the knot of his tie that it would get me nowhere. 

As I was wheeled into the imaging center, the part of my brain that craved the opiates rejoiced that I needed surgery – it would put off detoxing for another day or two. 48 more hours of floating on morphine. 

I decided not to think past that. It was too much.

Imaging was endless and required me to lay flat on my back. It was horrid. I complained bitterly, demanding to be anesthetized immediately.

“Come now, Mr. Holmes, it’s only a few more minutes.”

“You said that a few minutes ago!” I snarled.

“Would you like to see Dr. Watson? Would that make you feel better?”

I stared trying to comprehend him. “John? John’s not here.”

“Dr. Watson just arrived. He’s with your brother now. If you’ll behave, I’ll bring him in – he’s not officially allowed in here, but–“

“No! John can’t be here!” He was shocked at my vehemence. “I have to talk to Mycroft! Get my brother for me!” I could feel the itch of withdrawal in my skin. It would only get worse, but I didn’t want morphine any longer – I needed a clear head to talk to Mycroft. I needed him to explain to John that he COULD NOT BE HERE! 

I was wheeled out of the imaging center, calling for Mycroft. Demanding to talk to him. But no one listened. “Later.” They said. “Calm down. You’re going to surgery now. You’ll see your brother and Dr. Watson when you wake up. They’ll still be here.” I cried in frustration, sobbing into my pillow. 

The anesthetist put a mask over my face and the world fell away.

 

—-

 

I awoke to Mycroft’s voice and nausea. 

I drifted for a while meditating on the inevitability of that – Mycroft and nausea. They went together like a hand in a glove full of vomit.

Yes, it was childish. Mycroft could always bring that out in me. He had called my youthful drugs habit childish (choosing to forget our grandfather’s fondness for the opium pipe) and had treated me like a child ever since.

Until Moriarty. After the aeroplane of the dead debacle, he’d realised the value of Moriarty’s obsession with me. We’d become partners conspiring against him. Equals. Mycroft’s trust in me had been... heady.

Hiding that from Moriarty had been paramount, which unfortunately meant hiding it from John. Needs must and all, but it chafed. I knew a relationship such as ours thrived on honesty...

Now my partnership with Mycroft was at an end. I’d go back to rehab and he’d go back to thinking of me as an irresponsible little boy. Why even bother with rehab? It was too hard. I’d probably fail at it anyway. I could find a flop house and a reliable dealer.... 

I was in hospital. The regular buzz and bip of machinery a counterpoint to Mycroft’s drone. I thought hard about how I had got here... and remembered the aeroplane, the young doctor. I’d been upset that I was still alive... no one should have to survive what I’d been through...

I remembered Rammstein and the sounds of jets the smell of jet fuel. Lights flashing. I had needed surgery. I shifted and felt the pulling on my abdomen. I needed to talk to Mycroft. It was urgent...

John was here. 

The doctor had told me John was here! I had to talk to Mycroft – if John KNEW the full extent of my degradation... my abasement... I was long familiar with the combination of pity and disgust on Mycroft’s face, I was not ready to see it on JOHN’s. 

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t wanted it, that battered and violated as I was, I’d struggled furiously against the needle in Vinokourov’s hand. It had bit into my vein regardless... I’d forgotten how good it was, how ecstatic. How wonderful it felt to simply float away in joyful contentment...

When it wore off, I had refused another hit. It was hard – I had wanted it. But I was determined to keep hold of myself. The withdrawal might not be so bad after just one hit... I couldn’t be high if there was any chance of escape... but Nazer had simply smacked me around and when I was weak with sickness he dosed me again. 

After that... Vinokourov was supposed to kill me. The heroin wouldn’t have mattered if he’d killed me. It was an escape from that hellish existence – I was plaything, whore, punching bag... I was utterly and completely debased. I took all the drugs they would give me whilst I awaited the comfort of death.

The murmur of Mycroft’s voice stopped abruptly. In the silence, the nausea overwhelmed me and I retched uncontrollably. My gut exploded in agony – abdominal surgery was stunningly incompatible with throwing up. I moaned in pain.

“You’re ok. Don’t worry, love, you’ll be ok.” It was John. John was HERE. He was raising my bed into a sitting position, one hand on the controls, the other on my shoulder.

I stared at him – John looked... wonderful. Calm and caring, his brow furrowed in concern. He was just as I’d pictured him these long months we’d been separated. He was perfect. I longed for him to hold me ... 

I wanted to cry in frustration. I was so weak...

“Are you nauseated? It’s just a reaction to the anesthesia. It will pass.” He pressed a cool flannel to my forehead. “Try and rest.”

“I have...” My voice didn’t work. It was nothing more than a breathy whisper. I tried again. “I have to talk to Mycroft.” I said. My gorge rose and I coughed and retched some more causing stabbing pains in my belly.

“I’m here, brother mine.” Mycroft looked worried – but it was a mix of worry about my health and worry that he’d be asked to get too close or, god forbid, help.

“Alone.” I croaked. Mycroft glanced quickly at John. “I have to talk to Mycroft alone.”

“It’s fine.” John said in a voice that implied it really WAS fine. “I’ll be right outside in the hall if you need me.” He caressed my cheek briefly, smiling at me, then left the room closing the door behind him.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, studying me.

“I don’t want John here.” I told him. “Send him away.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes at me. “Please.” I begged.

He didn’t respond right away. He took his time examining me closely. I had no illusions that I could hide anything from him, he could observe and deduce as accurately as I could.

“You’re being very silly.” He said finally.

I choked through another wave of nausea. Mycroft looked distinctly alarmed. “I can’t...” I coughed. “I can’t bear for him to see me this way.” The sentiment brought tears to my eyes.

Mycroft sat heavily in the chair John had vacated. “He’s already seen you.” He said. “And you’re very mistaken if you think he judges you.”

“I need to go back to rehab.” I said softly, avoiding looking at him. 

“I know, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. “I tried to get you out sooner. It’s ... it’s harder than you think to send a military force into another country... even a stealth team... and when we couldn’t locate you... we thought you’d been moved from the prison...” He slumped in his chair. “I failed you. I’m.... I’m sorry.”

His contrition was palpable. Would a few days have made a difference? Would a week? Without a doubt!

I couldn’t think about that.

I needed to distract myself. I looked at Mycroft speculatively. “Come here.” I said, gesturing weakly.

Mycroft complied, his ear near my mouth. When I didn’t speak, he looked up questioningly. “What is it?” He asked.

“I have lice.” I told him. 

He harrumphed and pulled back sharply. But the thrill of childish glee I’d expected didn’t materialise. I just felt numb.

“They treated you for the lice whilst you were unconscious.”

“They what?” I felt an unexpected wave of anger.

“They treated you for lice. Your head was shaved and medicated. It was deemed simpler.”

“Simpler for whom!?” I demanded.

“For YOU, Sherlock. You were also washed and dressed, and a number of tests were performed that were unpleasantly... invasive.”

I noticed for the first time that I was wearing pyjamas. “You don’t think it was invasive not to ask me first!?”

“I didn’t think you’d object to getting rid of a lice infestation.”

“That’s not the point!” The shout left me retching helplessly, coughing phlegm and bile into my lap. When I recovered myself I caught Mycroft giving a small shake of his head towards the door. I looked up – John’s shadow was in the window. I scowled 

“He’s worried about you.” Mycroft said. “He’ll be devastated if you send him away.”

“I can’t think about that.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ve always cared about his feelings before...” He studied me carefully. “You still do... but you’re ashamed. Sherlock, John knows they forced the drugs on you. He knows you didn’t want them.”

“How... he can’t know that. You can’t know that.”

“Not all your captors were killed during your rescue. We’ve been ...talking... with the survivors.”

“Vinokourov?” 

“Dead.”

I nodded, that was good. But it didn’t make me feel better. I was battered and sick and so very, very tired.

“Nazer?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Dead... I understand he was your... gaoler...”

“He was my most dedicated rapist and the procurer of my drugs...” I told him, panic rising in my chest. “I may have succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome A BIT, but not nearly enough not to hope he suffered.”

Mycroft actually reached out to me, his hand hovering hear my arm as I shrank from it. “Oh please! We aren’t going to start HUGGING now, are we?!”

Embarrassed, he pulled his hands away. He could hug John if he needed to hug somebody that badly.

“Sherlock... take some time to think about it before you send John away. You won’t have a better advocate in hospital – he speaks their language and people like him better than they like you. And for some reason he loves you. He’ll do anything for you. Having him here will help you.”

“Mycroft...” I said helplessly. How could I express the desperation I felt? “I can’t... I don’t want him to know what happened in the prison...”

Mycroft looked strange – it was distress, an expression completely unfamiliar on his face. “John was at the prison, Sherlock.” He said gently. “He helped rescue you.”

I felt confused for a moment – John had... I remembered the smell of his hair, the scratch of it on my face... his lips pressing into my neck...

“That wasn’t a dream?”

“No, brother. It wasn’t.

“How...? You shouldn’t have let him!” I wept helplessly, overcome with detestable sentiment. “He could have been hurt, Mycroft! He could have been killed!”

Mycroft’s distress increased. “I hadn’t intended for John to be part of the rescue force, but when he found out it was possible, I couldn’t stop him.” Mycroft paused. “Sherlock, nothing could have kept him from you.”

“You put him in danger!” I accused.

“I put you in danger. That’s what I do.” The distress had reached his voice.

I tried to get a hold of myself. The sobbing was making the nausea worse and I rested my head between my knees. Mycroft patted me awkwardly.

“I’m sure...” Mycroft said haltingly “...whatever he’s imagining is worse than the reality.”

I stared at him. “No. Mycroft, it isn’t.”

My brother paled a bit. “Sherlock...”

“I know. You tried. Hard to get a military team in another country. You said.”

Mycroft was silent. It wasn’t his fault, not really. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t have to tell him that – he knew already. He simply blamed himself.

“I want to go home. I want to go back to London.” I said.

“Sherlock, you have to go through rehab first.” Mycroft said almost tentatively. “Doing it in London doesn’t work for you.”

He was right. “I’m just so tired.” I said.

“Let John take care of you.” Mycroft said, trying not to sound like he was pleading. “I saw how you looked at him – you were happy to see him.”

“I can’t... just tell him to go.”

“He’ll never understand if it comes from me.”

I swore – he was right. But the thought of telling him myself had my stomach roiling. I coughed and retched – I couldn’t stop retching. I threw up an alarmingly bloody measure of viscous fluid. 

Mycroft rang for the nurse. As she hurried in, I caught sight of John staring worriedly into the room before the door closed. 

I missed him so much! 

How could I tell him that I was no longer the man he’d loved? That I never would be again.

It was too much. It was all too much. I couldn’t think about it now. Any of it.

“Nurse. I don’t want any visitors. No one – not my brother, not Dr. Watson. I want to be alone.”

“This isn’t wise, Sherlock.” Mycroft told me.

“Please.” I said to the nurse.

She nodded reluctantly. “Mr. Holmes?” She escorted Mycroft to the door. 

“Someone will be here if you change your mind.” Mycroft said as the door closed on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly Mary is small potatoes...
> 
> Another chapter is in the works! I’ll post as soon as it’s finished.
> 
> As always, I value your comments.


	14. A Daring Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes into the Kazakh prison for Sherlock.

JOHN 

 

“Is Sherlock ok, Mycroft!? Tell me!”

He turned to me. In the pub I’d thought he looked the same as he always did, and indeed his fussy suit was immaculate, every hair was in place and he had his trusty umbrella. But he clutched the handle in rigid, white-knuckled hands, and his face – his normally superior expression was strained, but his eyes... his eyes were shadowed and haunted. 

“No, John, he’s not ok.”

“Is he... is he dead?” Oh god no!

“No.” Mycroft said. Turning his face away from me. “I don’t think so. Not yet. But soon if we don’t act.”

“Then we have to act! Where is he!?” I’d get on a plane tonight – go get him myself!

Mycroft paused a moment – arranging his thoughts? Choosing his words? I stifled an impatient groan. “He’s in prison in Kazakstan.” He said. “There’s a terrorist cell there running a hit squad and dealing in arms and explosives – we believe they’re the last failsafe in Moriarty’s scheme to kill you if Sherlock lives.”

“A terrorist cell in a prison?” 

“Oh yes. It’s brilliant camouflage. And protection – the Kazakh government insists it can’t possibly exist. But Sherlock found conclusive evidence.”

“And he’s IN the prison now?!”

Mycroft sighed – an alarming sound from him. “Sherlock’s been an inmate for eight weeks, looking for a way to infiltrate the gang – we know they exist, we don’t know how they operate. Last week... last week, it seemed like he’d gotten in – he was absent from his usual routine and the sources I had keeping tabs on him said he’d disappeared. You know how Sherlock works – he sees an opportunity and he takes it. Without bothering to explain himself.

“However... it appears someone – most likely one of the guards – sold Sherlock out. He was seen last night in the prison cafeteria acting... subservient... to the gang elite. He appeared to have been tortured.”

I made a small noise of dismay, but if Mycroft heard it he gave no sign. 

“The leader of the gang was heard saying that Sherlock would be executed in three days.”

“Executed!” I thrill of dread washed through me, tingling unpleasantly. “How much time is left?” I asked grimly.

“Best estimate is forty hours.”

I set aside the fear and panic – as I had so many times in Afghanistan (and since). “So, what’s the plan!? How are we getting him out of there!?”

“We’re assembling a team... the problem–“

“Problem!?” I asked sharply.

“The problem...” He repeated. “...is getting permission to bring a military force into Kazakstan. I’ve spent the last eight hours with the Kazakh ambassador...”

“You won’t let that stop you getting Sherlock?!”

Mycroft gave me his ‘don’t be so stupid’ look. “It’s delicate. I don’t want to start a war...”

“But you won’t let your brother die.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock sparked an international incident.”

 

—-

 

When I was eight years old and being properly bullied I read a book that changed me, changed my circumstances in a profound way. The book was called Wolves Of The American Northwest. 

Mrs. Reed, the stolid school librarian, had given it to me – I don’t think Mrs. Reed knew I was being picked on, she didn’t have an agenda for giving me this particular book other than boys like adventure stories so it might keep me quiet in her library. But reading how wolves hunted in packs, picking off the small and the weak spoke to me. 

According to the book, Wolves don’t expect to be attacked – they only know how to go after fleeing prey. The wolfhunter never ran from the pack – he, and his wolfhounds, attacked them. That confused the wolves, foiled their instinctual tactics. It allowed to wolfhunter to prevail. That resonated in my young mind. 

That afternoon when the bullies came for me, I didn’t just try to fight back, I attacked. Little, ginger eight year old, flinging himself like a berserker at older, bigger boys... and it worked! They couldn’t intimidate me and I quickly became too much trouble to bother with.

I gained the respect of my peers. I gained friends and influence. 

This lesson stayed with me as I grew and learned sports and later combat. Always, always when faced with physical opposition, I became the wolfhunter

 

—-

 

I hadn’t handled an assault rifle in years. I’d HAD one. I knew how to use it, how to care for it. But I’d always preferred a handgun.

In spite of that, it felt natural – right – to be holding one now I was again wearing full military kit. I’d lived in clothes exactly like these for twelve plus years. Even though there was some unfamiliar gear – I’d never worn a body camera or night vision goggles – donning the uniform was second nature. 

I met up with the rest of the team in Uzbekistan. 

“Captain Watson is familiar with the package, will recognise him on sight.” The Colonel told the impossibly young soldiers with only the smallest amount of tension in his voice. “He’s also a doctor, so he’ll be in the medical ‘copter with you, Lieutenant Baehr.”

“Yes, sir.” One of the soldiers replied. “If you’ll come with me, Captain, I’ll get you squared away.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. Dismissed.”

I trailed after the woman. She must be older than she looked, I decided, because she looked about 20. She must also be VERY good or Mycroft wouldn’t have her on this mission.

In the helicopter she nodded when I strapped myself in and put on the headset, I could tell she’d expected to have to help me. I wondered vaguely what sort of idiot she thought I was – because all the soldiers assumed I was some kind of idiot. I would have assumed the same thing about any unknown quantity thrown into my unit at the last second. At least I was (former) military, not just some hotdogging civilian.

It was a minor distraction from the overwhelming worry. Every minute wasted, I was certain we would be too late for Sherlock. I was almost buzzing with the anxiety.

We flew via stealth helicopter into Kazakstan. We weren’t supposed to be here, so there was a small chance we’d be detected and a slightly smaller chance we’d be fired upon. Sherlock could probably tell me the odds. 

Of course, if he were there to tell me that, I wouldn’t be flying into Kazakstan. 

It took almost an hour to get to the prison. The longest hour of my life. We landed almost a klick away to avoid detection. It had been LONG time since I’d run with 20 kilograms of gear on my person and I was VERY glad I was in shape. I managed to keep up with the youngsters – it wasn’t pretty and I was sucking air, but I didn’t get left behind.

I had only a few seconds to catch my breath whilst a burly private cut an opening in the chain link fence – the outer barrier of the prison. He held the fence open and we slipped through single file, black-clad, begoggled shadows in the darkness.

There was a five meter cinder block wall topped by razor wire around the exercise yard – the best way into the prison without alerting the guards. (Break-ins being much less common than break-outs.) The yard was dark, but going over the wall was dangerous – we risked detection. 

But no one hesitated. An agile soldier tossed a grappling hook over the wall then climbed the attached rope with stunning speed. At the top he draped a thick mat over the razor wire. He tossed the grappling hook to the ground, where another soldier collected and stowed it in her pack, then anchored a ladder to the lip of the wall and unrolled it. He disappeared over the wall. One by one we climbed the ladder, stepped over the mat-covered razor wire and climbed down an identical ladder on the other side. 

In a crouching run, I followed Lieutenant Baehr across the yard. We stayed close to the building where light from the guard towers didn’t shine. At the door, we stood back, stowing our goggles and shielding our faces whilst another soldier carefully placed explosives and blew the lock. 

So far, so easy. Ridiculously easy. But inside the maze-like prison were a multitude of dangers – we had to find the block that the terrorist gang used quickly with a minimum of disruption. The last thing we wanted was a firefight with the guards. I followed the other soldiers, my gun at the ready, as we ran through dank, stinking passages. There were people everywhere – prisoners, waking loudly, mostly hanging back with canny wariness. A fair few followed motivated by curiosity and the chance this strange invasion might prove serendipitous. It made our rear guard nervous, arguably it trapped us, but it also put a barrier between us and prison guards with weapons.

When we reached D block – our destination – I noticed immediately that it was brighter and smelled better. (Not good, but not nearly as awful.) The agile soldier had a camera that looked around corners. There were no guards in this part of the prison, not even lookouts for the gang. I could hear them, shouting and hooting. It sounded like a party and I was seized with dread that Sherlock had already been executed. I readied my weapon – if Sherlock were dead, no one in that room would survive this night.

The sergeant enacted a silent countdown with his fingers and the burly soldier threw a flash-bang into party. The tenor of the shouts changed from celebratory to fearful as we charged in. 

It was a large-ish open room filled with panic. A wall of prisoners surged towards us – going for the door we were coming in more than wanting to attack us. But anyone who didn’t stop got a rubber bullet in the gut. (After much deliberation it was decided we would be armed with rubber bullets to limit casualties. Not that a rubber bullet couldn’t kill, but they tended not to.) It was mayhem, people running everywhere, pushing and trampling their fellows. The tat-a-tat of assault rifle fire and the screams of the men hit.

I caught sight of a prone figure on the far side of the room. I worked towards him, announcing my intention into the microphone I wore on my collar. I heard the Sergeant send backup with me, but didn’t wait for them.

It was Sherlock, I was certain. The long, lanky body, the pale skin, the large hands and dark curls... but the closer I got, the less he looked like himself: He was so battered and thin... I shuddered in horror, thinking he was dead already. He was kneeling on the floor his hands tied behind him, leaning forwards over an old weight bench, head hanging. He was strapped to the bench, held firmly in place prepared for execution – beheading apparently. I felt my gorge rise thinking about that brilliant head being violently separated from its body...

“Over here!” I called as I ran to Sherlock. He was emaciated, his ribs and spine pushing painfully against his skin. His bare torso was striped with cuts and welts from a flogging – a few days ago at least judging by the scabbing and bruising. His unruly dark curls had grown to about half their usual length, but they were lank and dull. He was filthy and he stank of urine, BO and shit.

An inmate was yanking at the straps holding him down. “Hey! Get off him!” For a moment I was face to face with the man – he was sturdy and hawkish with piercing brown eyes and a full head of hair. I leveled my rifle and prodded him with it, none to gently. He hesitated, glancing down at Sherlock with a look I couldn’t define but definitely did not like. I prodded him harder, shoving the barrel into his guts hard enough to bruise and he finally backed away. I just barely registered another soldier grabbing him.

I knelt by Sherlock’s head. He hadn’t moved. “Sherlock?” I asked, praying for him to answer. I touched his neck and felt his pulse strong and regular.

“J-John?” 

I almost wept with joy. I caressed his beloved cheek, hollow now and bruised. “Yes, it’s me, love. I’ve got you.” I kissed his neck and pressed my forehead to his cheek. His greasy whiskers felt strange on my skin. “I’ve got you.” 

I would have to cut his bonds. I felt for my knife. I wanted to hold him, pick him up in my arms and carry him out of this hell hole. I started to saw through the first rope.

Where was the stretcher? “Over here!” I shouted a second time, waving an arm. I kissed Sherlock again, unable to stop myself despite the stench of his skin. “We’re getting you out of here.” I said as I worked to free him.

Movement caught my eye. I swore and recoiled, but the knife was kicked from my hand and went skittering across the floor. I leapt to my feet – an inmate was swinging a knife at Sherlock! No, a machete! Swearing, I managed to get my assault rifle up over Sherlock in time to block the vicious downward swing of the blade. My thoughts were flying and in the millisecond we were suspended there, weapons clanging together, I recognised that this must be Sherlock’s executioner. I was consumed by icy rage. I was in between the machete and Sherlock by the time he swung again – at me this time. I didn’t have a chance to get my weapon pointed at him – I wanted to empty the clip into his loathsome face – so I again used it to parry his machete. He was shouting at me in a language I didn’t understand.

I snarled at him in answer. He swung at me again, trying to use his height as an advantage – as if no one had ever tried that before! ‘I am the wolfhunter!’ I thought savagely. ‘I feel no fear in the face of a predator, I attack!’

Looking at this man, with his orange hair and pasty complexion – so pale his eyebrows and eyelashes appeared to be missing – who wanted to kill MY Sherlock – who had certainly harmed him! I attacked with animalistic ferocity. On his backswing, I stepped inside his reach and smashed the butt of my rifle into his gut. He released a great “Ooof!” and bent almost double. But he didn’t, as I’d hoped, drop the machete. 

However, I was now too close for him to swing the weapon at me. He tried to back away as he recovered his breath, but quickly found himself against the wall. I pressed the advantage, hitting him in the face with my rifle. I broke his nose and he roared and tried to grapple with me. All I could think about was this monster hurting Sherlock. I ignored his grasping hands and flailing blade and struck him in the head again and then again. I was gratified to see him bleeding, his pink eyes looking stunned, worried. I hit him again and again, wiping the expression off his monstrous face. 

Something hit me – hard! – and I was knocked to the ground. It was a man – it was the hawkish man with dark hair who I’d chased off Sherlock earlier. He had my knife, the one that had skittered off across the floor, and he bore down on me. I twisted away, barely avoiding the eight inch blade, and crab-walked backwards. I needed room to bring my rifle around to point at him.

He spoke, his accent guttural. “I know your face.” He said stabbing the air in front of me. “Shezzer friend. Little man. Shezzer alive...” he grinned baring yellow teeth and slashed at my face. I jerked away feeling the rush of air as I narrowly avoided being cut. “Shezzer alive, you die! YOU DIE, little man!”

He lunged suddenly – I fell back and knocked the blade off course with a lucky flail of my rifle. The man leered. “Shezzer pretty boy...” He said enunciating carefully. “Good teeth. I like.”

His words turned my stomach to ice. His leering expression made me ill – and so, so angry. He was close, too close, the blade whizzing dangerously through the air by my head. I twisted back again, but this time the blade caught me on the shoulder. Pain bloomed where it had sliced through my fatigues.

He bore down, still grinning, still too close for my rifle to be of any use. I thought of him touching Sherlock... my hands moved of their own accord, parrying the knife stroke with the barrel of my rifle whilst drawing my handgun – my familiar Sig – and firing directly into his cursed face.

He dropped like a stone, half on top of me. I kicked myself free, wrenching my knife from his grip.

Someone grabbed my shoulder and I reacted – bringing my knife around to defend myself against this new enemy. But it was a kid, a British soldier. One of my own troops. 

“Captain Watson.” He gasped. “Are you ok?!” 

“What!”

“You were attacked!”

“Yeah...” I gripped my knife reflexively.

“They’re dead, sir. You ki–.... they’re dead.” I looked where he pointed and saw the ginger executioner was indeed dead, lying against the wall, his head bashed in beyond recognition. The hawkish man lay at my feet, a bullet hole between his glassy leering eyes.

I heaved a breath. “Er, yeah. Thank you, soldier.” I took the hand he offered and stood. I glanced around self-consciously. Sherlock was gone I realised, shock filling my chest like lightening. “Sherlock...!”

The soldier followed my gaze. “Lieutenant Baehr took him on the stretcher, sir.” 

“Where?!” I demanded. “Back the way we came?”

“Yes, sir.” I turned in that direction, but the young soldier grabbed me. “You can’t, sir! The medical team is gone – you won’t make it to the yard alone! Even if you do, you won’t get there before the helicopter leaves. You have to come with us, sir.”

I looked around. A smaller force remained, herding prisoners with their hands zip-tied behind their backs into kneeling positions facing the wall – I noted that there were a number of dead or unconscious inmates in the chamber – many more than those dead at my hand. I fell in with the other soldiers grudgingly, aching to be with Sherlock. I didn’t know how I’d missed his being freed and taken away.

 

—-

 

If I thought it took forever to GET to the prison, getting out and flying back to Uzbekistan was absolutely interminable. We’d had to fight our way out, battle for every meter of hallway, whilst taking two prisoners (“Intel, sir. Mr. Holmes wants to know exactly what happened here.”) and carrying a wounded soldier. The firefight with the guards precluded our helicopter from landing in the exercise yard, as it had for the medical team with Sherlock. We had to blow a hole in the cinderblock wall and sprint 400 meters through the woods wearing night vision goggles, laying down cover fire in turns every 50. I had one arm of the wounded soldier over my shoulders, sharing him with a petite private who managed her unwieldy goggles with enviable ease as we dragged our unfortunate companion to the helicopter.

The entire time I berated myself for letting myself get distracted – allowing my anger and worry over Sherlock’s desperate state get the better of me. I forced myself not to blame the other soldiers – though why one of them couldn’t have simply shot the machete-wielding madman was a mystery. I could have been WITH Sherlock instead of fretting endlessly about him.

Once on the copter, I realised – from the way the private shrunk from me in horror as I tended his wound – that not only was my assault rifle slippery with gore, but I was as well. The front of my kit, and I noticed later, my face, was splattered with blood and brain matter. Even so, my only emotion was a barely restrained panic to get to Sherlock’s side.

I was forced to shower and change into civvies in Uzbekistan before I was allowed on the plane to Rammstein that Mycroft had sent for me. And I forced myself to spend a grudging three minutes cleaning and bandaging the throbbing puncture in my shoulder. But once in Germany, I was ushered immediately into a waiting car without any bother with customs, and whisked to hospital.

“He’s in surgery.” Was how Mycroft greeted me. “Minor rupture to the spleen.”

“Did you see him? How is he?”

“Just very briefly, enough to see it was, indeed, my brother – he was taken directly to the operating theatre. 

“Oh.” I was disappointed. It was a letdown to finally get here and have to wait even longer. “Minor? You’re certain?”

“I’m assured he’ll survive. It should only take a few hours.”

“Ok. Yeah.” I sat down in one of the upholstered chairs.

“John...” Mycroft had an inscrutable look on his face. “I reviewed the footage from your body camera.”

“Oh?” I immediately felt wary. I’d forgotten the camera – I’d forgotten myself! – when I’d beaten a man to death with the butt of my rifle. “They attacked me...” I started defensively.

“We’ve identified the two men that you, well... “ Mycroft’s smile was cold. “The one with the machete was Vinokourov, leader of the terrorists and the man who sentenced Sherlock to death – he apparently wished to carry out the execution himself. The other was one of Sherlock’s chief torturers, a man named Nazer Nabiyev. Both were wanted by the British government in relation to the 7/7 bombings in London.” He let that sink in – I’d been in Afghanistan in 2005 and hadn’t experienced the terrorist bombings that morning first hand. But Harry had been in the Underground, on the Circle Line, when it was attacked by the suicide bombers. I remembered the cold dread in my stomach when I’d heard... remembered how long it had taken me to get her on the phone, to know she was ok...

“The footage from all the body cameras has been classified.“ Mycroft continued. “So I’m afraid there won’t be an OBE for you. But rest assured there would have been if this had been an official operation.”

I was stunned – and suddenly completely exhausted. “I don’t need an OBE, Mycroft.” I said. “I just want to see Sherlock.”

“You will. As soon as he’s out of surgery. I’ve made arrangements – you have all the entitlements of a family member here. I’m certain it’s what Sherlock will want.”

“Thank you. Thanks, yeah.” I rubbed my eyes tiredly. “The condition he was in... I won’t be easy until I see him.” His condition was appalling, some of what had been done to him, writ large on his skin. I didn’t want to think what all he’d suffered, what that might mean for his health – let alone his well-being – going forward. But I would be with him every step of the way.

 

—-

 

Sherlock’s medical chart read like a horror novel.

He’d had surgery for a splenic rupture – not a large one, thank goodness. They were able to repair rather than remove his spleen. This was good – living without a spleen put one at high risk for contracting life-threatening diseases. 

In addition to the ruptured spleen, Sherlock had suffered a concussion, fractures to three fingers, numerous subcutaneous hematomas – on his face, torso and limbs – peritonitis, multiple lacerations, infected lacerations, sores from scratching himself raw, extensive bruising, fever, swollen lymph nodes, rectal tearing and anal fissures, tinea corporis (ringworm), head lice, body lice, and he was addicted to heroin.

This was without testing him for any of the numerous diseases he might have contracted – from bacteria in his bloodstream to any number of sexually transmitted diseases including HIV.

I bowed my head in despair.

 

—

 

I stood out in the hall wondering what Sherlock had to tell Mycroft. He must have some vital information about Moriarty’s web... I prayed Vinokourov had truly been the end of it.

When they had wheeled a still-unconscious Sherlock into the room and installed him in bed, he managed to look both a thousand times better and shockingly awful. 

Sherlock slept peacefully, his bruised face unlined and vulnerable. He was clean and he had color in his cheeks. His matted hair and beard had been shaved and his scalp smelled slightly medicinal – a treatment for the lice. He wore pyjamas, but underneath ointment and bandages covered his sores and lacerations. He had splints on three, slightly swollen fingers.

But he was still painfully thin, his jutting clavicles just visible in the open collar of his pyjamas, his cheeks hollow. His face and neck were bruised, one eyelid swollen, his bottom lip split. Some of the bruises on his neck looked disturbingly like fingerprints, as if someone had throttled him. And there were bruised track marks on both his wrists. It took little imagination to know they traveled up his arms.

On his freshly shorn scalp, I could see the scar over his ear. It had been fresh and angry the last time I saw Sherlock. Now it was a red seam flush with his skin.

Time had passed... I’d put my life on hold for two years, waiting for him... wishing... pining... all I wanted was to be with Sherlock. I loved him, I always would. Finally, FINALLY! I had him back... whatever he needed, I would be there for him!

I was relieved when Sherlock woke, more so when he spoke. I didn’t mind being sent from the room, not at first. Not until Mycroft joined me. I had expected to return to Sherlock’s side, to care for him.

“He wants to be alone.” Mycroft told me, his face drawn and tired. “He doesn’t want either of us in his room right now.” The guard Mycroft had posted outside Sherlock’s door looked over, unable to hide his curiosity.

I glanced uneasily through the window. Sherlock had his eyes closed, ignoring the nurse. “Did he say when...?”

“He did not.” Mycroft snapped. I stared, surprised at his vehemence. “John.” He said in a softer tone. “Don’t take this personally. Sherlock was very happy to see you. He loves you very much. But he’s... upset. Understandably upset.”

“Ok.” I waited. Mycroft actually squirmed. 

“Sherlock says he doesn’t want you to see him like this. He’s being quite irrational about it.” Mycroft sat heavily in a chair on the opposite side of the corridor. “They forced drugs on him –  
he’s addicted to heroin. The last time... detoxing wasn’t... pleasant. I think he’s afraid to let you see him in that state ...”

“But...” I wanted to say it was ridiculous, but it wasn’t. Not entirely. I hadn’t wanted people fussing over me after I’d been shot. I’d had a limited tolerance for mates ... but I didn’t have anyone I was close to, like Sherlock, then. We were partners. Weren’t we?

“John, you are without a doubt, the best thing to ever happen to my brother. You have been astonishingly patient with him – his moods, his ‘death,’ his prolonged absence... I can only ask you to be patient a bit longer.”

Mycroft was pleading with me.

“PTSD.” I said.

“What?”

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. How could he NOT have it after everything...” Mycroft had told me a bit of what the inmates we’d taken to Uzbekistan had said about Sherlock’s imprisonment. “It was nightmarish, what happened to him. He’s not just suffering physically.”

“No, of course, but....”

“Don’t worry about me.” I said. “I’m fine.” I WAS fine. I was determined. “Why don’t you go get some rest, Mycroft – you haven’t slept in days, have you? Sherlock is safe now. I’m going to stay here –“

“But –“

“Right here, outside his door. I’m here if he needs me.”

Mycroft regarded me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I’ll have a comfortable chair brought for you.” He said. “And a charger for your phone. You have my number if you need me – and Fielding is here if you need anything else.” He gestured at the guard who nodded solemnly. Mycroft stood up and rubbed his eyes tiredly “I mean that, John – if you need food or a change of clothes or even a cup of tea, do not hesitate to tell Fielding, he’ll arrange it. I’ll be back in a few hours. Hopefully by then...” He looked significantly at Sherlock’s closed door.

“I will. Thank you.”

“No, thank you, John. It’s... good ... to have someone to share the worry.”

He walked slowly down the hall. I’d never seen him look so old.

 

—-

 

“Ha! Queen. Two cards.” I was playing Beggar My Neighbour with Fielding. He was at least fifteen years my junior, and apparently his parents hadn’t cared for cards – I’d had to teach him. I’d tried teaching him rummy first... but Beggar My Neighbour was more his speed.

Not that I was complaining! Night three in the hallway and I was grateful to have his – and alternately his partner, Staelich’s – company. (These were Staelich’s cards, she was a bit of a shark.)

After the first day, Mycroft had sent a smartphone in to Sherlock and retired to the office he had appropriated. I’d been there once, briefly – and could probably find it again, if pressed – but I preferred the hall. It was closer to Sherlock. If he wanted me, I could be with him in an instant.

He was doing well, reportedly. Healing from his surgery and his many wounds. He’d needed two more treatments for the body lice (along with radical removal of all linens and pyjamas) but now they were eradicated. His fever was gone, the sores and infections drying up. The peritonitis had responded to the antibiotics – as was the gonorrhea he’d contracted. 

Gonorrhea was the only STD they’d yet detected (unless the body lice counted). Sherlock’s HIV tests were negative and they’d given him PReP, but it was too soon to know for certain if he’d been infected or not.

That filled my guts with fear. I knew HIV was treatable now, manageable. And I knew that regardless this entire experience would change Sherlock, change his feelings and attitudes about sex. How could it not?! I had loved our sex life, those months we were together. It had been, for the most part, easy and open, full of pleasure for both of us. I remembered being woken more than once by Sherlock impaling himself on my morning wood, riding me, bouncing and panting, to our mutual orgasms...

It would all be more complicated now. I felt so sad... not for myself! This wasn’t about me! But sad that my glorious, gorgeous, uninhibited Sherlock was suffering. I would do anything to take this whole experience from him!

I sighed. Sherlock was due to begin detoxing in earnest today. Mycroft had told me that he was arranging for rehab when Sherlock was well enough, but the first stages would happen here. 

“What the fuck! You blokes playing war? With MY cards?!” Staelich hovered over us.

“Beggar Your Neighbour.” I said.

“What are you? Five years old?” She demanded.

“It passes the time.”

She scooped up the cards. “We’re playing poker.” Staelich announced. She shuffled the cards expertly. I watched her hands, they were deceptively delicate – as was the rest of her. Staelich was petite and blonde and quite easy on the eyes, but I knew she wouldn’t be employed by Mycroft if she weren’t excellent at her job.

My phone vibrated. I turned away from Fielding and Staelich holding up my phone to show them I’d received a text. 

It was from Sherlock!

I scrambled to my feet, ready to go to him – thinking how glad I was I’d taken the time to shower and shave a bit ago.

**stop flirting with her – SH**

After waiting for him for two years, Sherlock had taken one look at me and thrown me out of his hospital room. After three days outside his door THIS is what he wanted to say to me?

My phone buzzed again.

**who is she? – SH**

^^^Can I come in? Can we just talk?^^^

Sherlock didn’t answer right away and my heart sank. It was difficult to not simply throw open the door and walk into his room. Finally my phone vibrated.

**Who is she?**

I sighed. I was trying – and rather failing – not to feel deeply hurt.

^^^Staelich. She and Fielding are the guards Mycroft has posted at your door. I’m not flirting with EITHER of them. We’re playing cards to pass the time out here. In the hall. Which you would know if you talked to me.^^^

I regretted the text the moment I sent it. It was stupid to make any of this about me. It was hard not to feel isolated out here... I needed to be more patient.

**I don’t need guards.**

^^^Sherlock, What’s going on? Why don’t you want me with you?^^^

^^^Please, just tell me.^^^ I begged.

The ellipsis indicating Sherlock was responding appeared... then disappeared and reappeared again. I stared at the dots, watching them bounce and bounce... it disappeared again.

Sherlock was having trouble deciding what to say.

^^^Are you upset with me? Did I do something?^^^

**No!**

^^^Do you still love me? Do you still want us to be together?^^^

That was hard to type – and harder to send. I hated how needy it sounded. But I had to know.

**John, I love you more than I can express. I want nothing more than to be with you in Baker Street again.**

I almost wept with relief!

^^^Good. I love you too! And I miss you. Please tell me why I’m standing out in the hall instead of holding your hand right now.^^^

No answer, no bouncing ellipses.

^^^I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I just wish I understood.^^^

I waited, breath held. Nothing. Nothing! I bounced my forehead against the wall gently, holding back tears that suddenly threatened to spill. I had to be strong. I had to be strong for Sherlock.

^^^But if you can’t find the words... I trust you. I do. I will try to be more patient.^^^

This was even harder to type. I wanted to know! I was desperate to understand! 

And I felt so insecure out here in the beige hallway, sitting in an out-of-place beige recliner, enduring the pitying looks of the nurses and the curiosity of the doctors...

But Sherlock had been held hostage. He had been kidnapped, taken forcibly. He had been beaten and tortured. He had been raped – gang raped almost certainly. Possibly more than once. He had been injected with heroin against his will, addicted to a drug he had tried so hard to put behind him.

He’d had no autonomy, bodily or otherwise. All of his independence had been stolen. And I knew how important his independence, his need to be in control of his own destiny, was.

Hospital, for all that it was good and necessary, was not the ideal place to regain one’s autonomy. If sitting in this motherfucking hallway gave Sherlock back some small sense that he controlled his own destiny, then I would sit in the fucking hall. 

I would be patient and stoic and remember that this wasn’t about ME. I would respect his need to be alone right now. I would trust him.

I could give him this. 

^^^I trust you.^^^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we stay with John...


	15. The Red Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go here to see De Chirico’s The Red Tower.  
> https://www.guggenheim.org/artwork/853
> 
> If the tower is Sherlock and the dark walls and shadows his enemies, is John the happy, well-lit village surrounding the tower?

JOHN 

 

I returned to Baker Street thirteen days later when Sherlock left hospital for rehab. Before he left, he invited me to go for a walk with him.

We met outside. It was cool and breezy – enough that I questioned if Sherlock should even be outdoors. He was still painfully thin and detoxing had taken a toll, he looked pale and ill wrapped in a snow white parka, a black wool beanie covering his stubbly head.

But I held my tongue. Sherlock had waited until he could dress and walk around before meeting. He had refused to receive me – or anyone – in his hospital room, so I wasn’t going to fuss over him now. And in spite of his thinness and the shadows of healing bruises still evident on his face, he looked beautiful to me.

I felt a little shy, a bit uncertain about what Sherlock wanted, about what he would allow. But when he saw me, he smiled with pure happiness and I folded him into my arms. 

It felt like home, holding him. Suddenly my senses were filled with Sherlock – his scent, the solidity of his back under my hands, his face tucked against my neck... I loved him! God, how I loved him!

“John.” He murmured, his lovely baritone vibrating against my ear.

“I’ve missed you.” I kissed him, capturing his lips with my own. He tasted of mint and sausages and I couldn’t help but smile into the kiss.

“I could kiss you for hours.” Sherlock rumbled.

“I would love that.”

“Then we’ll do it. When I come home.” He sighed and it was so wistful.

“It won’t be long now.” I said, as much to reassure myself as him. 

Sherlock smiled at me but it was troubled. I took both his hands in mine. “Sherlock...” I said. “I miss you desperately. I want nothing more to be with you – because I love you. I love you. All of you. Everything about you. And it’s been so hard to just... wait. Knowing you’re in danger, knowing you’re suffering... and not being there for you... that’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“John...” Sherlock looked miserable. Anxious.

“Let me finish.” I told him gently. “I love you, Sherlock. Right now, you need me to wait. So I will wait. I will wait as long as it takes.”

“But... that’s not right. I HAD to take care of Moriarty’s people... but now...”

“Sherlock, you don’t have to worry about me. Not right now. Whatever you need to do now, know that I love you and I trust you. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Come home when you’re ready. I’ll be there. And if there’s anything else you need, just let me know and I’ll come.”

“John!” He crumpled into my arms again and I held him tightly. “I don’t know what to say... John...”

“No.... it’s ok...” I tried to soothe him. “I’ll do anything you need.”

Eventually he started to stand straighter so I let him go. 

“Fancy a cuppa?” I asked him. “There’s a little bakery close by.” I’d been there several times over the last week when they took Sherlock for tests. “They have English tea.”

“Tea!” Sherlock said. “I haven’t had a real cup of tea in ages!”

We walked slowly to the bakery, holding hands. I steered him to a table by the fireplace – he was tiring rapidly, his stamina stolen by injury and recuperation. “Sit.” I said. “I’ll get the tea.”

John, I can get–“ 

I cut off his protest. “Sherlock, I always make tea. Why would this be different?”

He blinked at me. “Right. Ok.” He shed the big, white parka and sat by the fire, stretching his feet towards it. I greeted the proprietor and ordered two cups of English breakfast.

As I sat down next to Sherlock, he had the most peculiar look on his face. I leaned over to see what had caught his attention and saw the proprietor’s piebald dachshund settling herself down across Sherlock’s feet. He had tears in his eyes, he didn’t even try to hide it. “John... she’s... she’s warm.”

I hugged his shoulder, kissing his cheek and filling my lungs with the scent of his skin. It hurt my heart to see how bereft of kindness and contact his life had been that a little dog warming his feet could seem so profound.

“Och, I’m sorry – I can move Gretl...” The proprietor had brought our tea.

“No. No, she’s... fine. She’s... sweet.” Sherlock told her. “Leave her be.”

“Ja, ok. Tell me if she becomes a nuisance.” She set a plate of pastry down between us and retreated.

I shoved the sugar towards Sherlock and poured milk into my tea. “John...” He said. “You don’t care for sweets.”

“No.” I agreed. “But you do.” I wouldn’t fuss over him, but I hoped he would eat. He needed to eat.

Sherlock slowly stirred sugar into his mug. “I’m not hungry. Ugh. I can’t eat.”

“No? Well, I‘ll have a little then.” Detoxing was hard on the body – and harder on the mind. I wasn’t surprised Sherlock had no appetite. I broke off a corner of strudel and nibbled at it. “Mmm. This tea is good.” I said, sipping it.

Sherlock sipped his and sighed. “I miss everything about London.” He gazed at me over the rim of his mug. “I want to come home. I want to be with you, John. The time I lived with you, it was the happiest of my life. All of it.”

“Mine too, Sherlock.”

“It’s just... exhausting... I had thought I’d come to the end of it. Now there’s just more... more to get through. And it’s all so BORING! You have no idea, John. It’s monstrous.”

I took his hand and squeezed it. “I might have something for you to think about while you’re recovering.” I told him. “I discovered the identity of the sniper – the one who killed the old lady in order to shoot the card shark from her high-rise.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with interest – it made my heart skip to see it! We sipped our tea and I told him the whole story: saving Mary from the mugging, keeping in touch with her via text, going to the dinner party and meeting Seb Moran and Cam Magnussen, seeing the sniper rifle in Moran’s gun collection, his history as a sniper on the India/Pakistani border, going out for drinks with Seb...

“You went on a date!?” Sherlock cut in to demand.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Not a real date, love. Lestrade needed a photo to show to that dry cleaner you’d found. I just lured him out into public, showed Lestrade who he was.”

Sherlock grumbled. “Did he get it?”

“Yes. And he got a positive ID.”

“It’s him!”

“Yes, but...”

“You understand this means Mary set you up! The whole thing was a set up!”

“Yeah, maybe.. unless she was set up too...”

“John. Just because you find her attractive –“

“I don’t!”

“You do.”

“Why do you think that!?”

“Because you’re completely predictable. Of course someone wanting to entrap you would send a woman exactly your ‘type.’ He’d know you’d be hesitant to believe she’s a criminal. It’s exactly what I would do.”

“She’s NOT my type.” I muttered rebelliously. “Not anymore.”

John... I don’t doubt your commitment to... to us. But it’s just biology – it’s instinctual for you to want to protect and care for a pretty woman, especially one in danger...”

“Sherlock–“

“I’m not threatened, John. It’s just obvious –“

“All right! Fine. She’s in on it. And I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock smiled at me so fondly that my irritation drained away like water through a sieve. Unthinkingly, he broke off a hunk of strudel and popped it in his mouth with a satisfied smirk and I smiled with utter fondness myself. I wasn’t the only one who was predictable.

“Ok. The real question, Sherlock, is why would Moran reveal himself like that?”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “He wouldn’t have known about the dry cleaner, wouldn’t have thought we could know for certain it was him. What did he say when interrogated?” He asked.

“Erm... Moran disappeared before Lestrade could...”

“Disappeared! Is Lestrade so incompetent –“

“No, listen. It’s not Lestrade’s fault. He had a team following Moran, a team that included your friend Ravi Vaachaspati...”

“He’s not my friend, John! I told you, he was just –“

“He was stabbed.” I interrupted Sherlock. “They found him in an alley. He died in surgery.”

“Oh. That’s... bad.”

“Yeah. No one has seen Moran since.”

“Lestrade has Mary under surveillance? That should lead directly to him.“ Sherlock ate more of the strudel.

“If he does, it hasn’t. At least not before I left London.”

“Why is everyone an idiot?! How does Lestrade catch criminals without me?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Let me tell you the rest.” As he worked his way through the pastry, I told him about Mary contacting me in a panic about Moran’s disappearance, going to Moran’s flat with Lestrade (“Good! You don’t want to be alone with those two!”), Cam Magnussen’s ... creepiness, and the discovery that Moran’s sniper rifle was missing as well.

When I finished, Sherlock seemed deep in thought. I was content to sit quietly with my tea – I was WITH Sherlock. Sitting with him like this, as he digested the information, made my heart ache. I missed him so much!

After several minutes Sherlock’s eyes focused on me again. He gave me an assessing look. “Mary stayed in touch after going to Moran’s flat.”

It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway. “Erm, yeah.”

“She’s keeping tabs on you.” He said with certainty.

“Ok – but why?”

“It’s another cell, another backup. Moriarty’s final failsafe if I’m found alive.” Sherlock said. “Mary knows that you and I were together?”

“Yeah, how did you –“

“Your date with Moran. You told her you were gay. Did you think it would put her off?”

I sighed. “I told her I’m bisexual. Because I am... bisexual.” That still felt strange to say. “I put her off by telling her I’d lost someone and I wasn’t ready for a relationship – just like EVERYONE ELSE ON EARTH, she assumed I meant you.”

“Does that STILL bother you?”

“No. Of course not. Clearly everyone was right.” It was somewhat galling to have to admit that. 

“Mm. Mary – has she hit on you yet?”

I remembered the night Mycroft had told me Sherlock was in danger – I’d completely forgotten about Mary. About the kiss...

“Ah, I can see she has!” Sherlock crowed licking the last bit of strudel from his fingers. “Good. That’s good.”

“How is that good?”

Sherlock regarded me, suddenly completely serious. “Because you’re in danger, John. If they discover I’m alive, a bullet will find you. It could be anywhere, anytime...” Sherlock clutched at my hands with real anxiety, betraying his fragility.

“Like that video they showed you in New York.”

“Yes. Just like that.” He swallowed hard then continued. “They made contact after you disappeared for several days – the days we spent together in the hotel. Now you’ve disappeared for two weeks. They will be very suspicious. As soon as you get back – no before you get out of Heathrow – you must contact Mary with an explanation. What has Mycroft concocted to explain your absence?”

“Harry.” I said. “Intervention. Getting her settled in rehab...” Just saying it made me feel glum – I wished I COULD intervene with Harry...

“Good. That will work. I presume Mycroft has disappeared Harry as well?”

“Yeah... she refuses to take rehab seriously, but she agreed to take a few weeks of holiday. You don’t want to know what she said when she discovered there wasn’t any alcohol in the minibar.”

“Hm.” Sherlock sounded distracted until he saw my expression. “I’m sorry, John. Rehab... you ... you have to want it or it’s no good.”

“You want it...” It wasn’t quite a question.

“Desperately, John.” I touched my forehead to his, our hands clasped between us. “I’m impatient to get home... but I need... I need...”

“I know.” I said. “I could kill them for what they did to you.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “You did, John. You did kill them – two of the worst, at least. Or so Mycroft tells me.

“I would have killed everyone in that prison for you. I just wish I’d gotten there sooner...”

“Don’t, John. It’s over. I’m alive. And we’re going to keep you alive in London.”

“Right. Yeah.” I mentally shook myself and tried to refocus on Moran. “I’ll text Mary...”

“Has she texted you at all since you left London?”

“Erm, yeah. I muted her thread – I didn’t want the distraction.”

“Let me see.”

I fished out my phone and opened messenger. I grimaced. There were a dozen new texts from Mary. I gave Sherlock the phone.

“You were with her when Mycroft contacted you? Right before you disappeared?” Sherlock deduced as he read.

“Yeah.”

He glanced at me with irritation. “What was Mycroft thinking, showing himself? What were YOU thinking!?”

“We were thinking that we had to stop your execution.” I told him.

“Still, this is very inconvenient.”

“I’ll try to remember that the next time I’m in a rush to save your life.” 

Sherlock didn’t respond. He scrolled through all my texts with Mary. He began to cackle. “Oh yes, Moriarty did his homework. She’s perfect for you!”

“Sherlock, she’s not –“

“She is! It’s good we kept Moriarty from knowing about us. He wouldn’t have bothered with her – he would simply have killed you. Probably in front of me...” He trailed off, seeming not to like this train of thought. “We can use this. You’ll have to start seeing her more often.”

“I don’t want to ... to DATE her.” I protested. “YOU don’t want me to date her.”

“No... of course not...” Sherlock said absently. “You’ll have to string her along. Just remember – she’s dangerous. She’s already extremely suspicious. You’ll need to be very careful not to reveal too much.”

“Right. Don’t mention you’re alive. Got it. Anything else? Try not to be an idiot?”

“DO try not to be an idiot, John. Obviously.”

I sighed.

“I have every confidence in you.” Sherlock said. He frowned. “What? What’s that face?” He asked me.

“I’m trying to remember why I missed this.”

Sherlock laid his hand against my cheek. “You did.” He said softly. “You do.”

“I do.” I agreed and kissed him. It was slow and very sweet and if I had let it continue I wouldn’t have been fit to be seen in public.

“My plane leaves soon.” Sherlock said regretfully. “Yours too.”

“Yeah.” I said, pressing my forehead to his again, reveling in his closeness.

We stood up to leave, disturbing the little dachshund. She wagged her tail and Sherlock patted her long, multicoloured fur with a tenderness that made me want to weep. Maybe we should get a dog... 

I gave him my arm as we left the bakery, Sherlock wrapped once more in the white parka. He leaned on me as we made our way back and it worried me. His pride wouldn’t allow him to show weakness unless he absolutely couldn’t help it. He was almost frail. I was happy he’d eaten the pastry, but he needed so much more! With difficulty I suppressed the impulse to fret and fuss and harangue him to eat more. He knew...

“John...” Sherlock spoke quietly, just above a whisper. I leaned closer to hear him. “What if I have HIV?”

I stopped and looked into his troubled eyes. “We will deal with it together.” I said. “There’s nothing we can’t deal with together.”

“But...”

“No. Sherlock, I don’t care if you’re positive. We are together.”

He nodded slowly and I folded him into my arms once more. “The only thing that scares me, Sherlock – the ONLY thing – is losing you.” I rubbed my cheek against his lovely neck. “We’ve been apart for so long already...”

Sherlock shifted in my arms, pulling back slightly to look into my eyes. “You should know...” He said. “I remember everything, John. Every second we spent together, every word, every look, every kiss and caress. Every laugh. I remember EVERYTHING – it’s kept me going all this time without you.”

I struggled to catch my breath. “Not much longer now.” I said. “Then we’ll make new memories.” I wanted to hold him forever, never let go.

“You are so much stronger than I...” Sherlock murmured.

Before I could reply, a black saloon car pulled up next to us and the door opened. “It’s time, Sherlock.” Mycroft called from its depths.

Sherlock clung to me for a long moment. I didn’t want to let him go! But I had to. Firmly, despite the lump in my throat, I pulled back.

“Be careful, John. Stay alive.” Sherlock said.

“I will.” I smiled. “Just for you.” I kissed him again, and then he climbed into the black car and I shut the door behind him.

 

—-

 

^^^ Sorry I worried you. I’m fine. A family emergency took me out of London for a while. I should have texted sooner – it all got away from me. ^^^

— John! Thank god! I didn’t know what to think. I hope everything is ok now. —

^^^ I hope so too, but honestly I doubt it... long story. Too long for text. ^^^

— Oh no. Are you home at least? —

^^^ Heathrow. I could sleep for a week. ^^^

— I’ll let you go then. Thanks for texting – with Seb missing, I guess I panicked a little when you disappeared too. —

^^^ Seb is still MIA? ^^^

— Yes. I’m beside myself. Something terrible must have happened to him. —

^^^ I’m sure not. Let’s get together soon. You can catch me up. I owe you a drink, at least, for running out on you like that. ^^^

— That would be great. When’s good? —

^^^ Tomorrow’s Saturday... if you aren’t already booked, the Spotted Pony at 17:00? ^^^

— I always have to count out military time on my fingers. 5pm – see you then. —

^^^ Sry - habit. ^^^

I really was tired. After putting Sherlock in Mycroft’s car, I’d grabbed my duffel – one of Mycroft’s people had brought it to Germany packed with my clothes and toiletries – and got on a private plane to Bern, Switzerland. From there I was driven to Zurich (better not to be seen arriving at the Zurich airport) to the Calda Clinic. Calda was a drugs and alcohol rehab clinic disguised as the fanciest resort hotel I’d ever seen – much, much fancier than the best hotel I’d ever stayed in. I didn’t want to know how much this was costing.

There I met up with Harry. 

Harry was... challenging. Any hope I had been nurturing that the rehab might somehow ‘take’ was shattered the moment I saw her bloodshot eyes. We had dinner together – an exceedingly fancy dinner in Calda’s five star restaurant. Conversation quickly devolved into an argument. I knew from long experience how futile it was to argue with Harry, so I clammed up and she worked herself into a strop over my silence. Afterwards I went to bed in my ridiculously lavish suite and left Harry to her own devices.

I had to knock her up in the morning before my flight. She was hungover – if not still drunk, she stank of beer – and quarrelsome.

“I can’t stay here, Johnny. I want to go home.”

“Please, Harry... you don’t have to stay the whole six weeks – just one more week. Then you can check yourself out. But I need you to do this for me.”

“It sucks here!” Harry moaned.

“Seriously? It’s fantastic here! Have a massage. Go skiing or fucking horseback riding. Get room service from the goddamned five-star restaurant! Do whatever the hell you want! It’s ALL FREE! It can’t be a hardship to take a free fucking holiday!”

“Don’t yell at me! You know I have a headache.”

“Look... sorry... Harry, I can’t explain, but you staying here is a matter of life and death.”

Harry snorted derisively. “I’m not going to die! A few drinks never killed anybody.”

I wasn’t going to argue that point, she wouldn’t listen anyway. “MY life or death, Harry! MINE! If I can’t convince people that I’ve spent the past two weeks here with you, my life is in danger.”

My sister stared at me, the words slowly penetrating her truculence. “This has something to do with Sherlock.” She observed.

I flopped into one of her chairs and covered my eyes with my hand wearily – Harry had long practice with knowing when I was lying. I hoped her hangover would dull this ability. Sticking as close to the truth as possible would help. “Yeah.” I said, carefully. “Something he left unfinished.”

“Ok. But life and death, Johnny?”

“Yeah. Life and death and national security. Sherlock’s brother... he works for the government. He needed help... that’s all I can say.”

“Sherlock’s brother? Is he the ponce that made me come here?”

“No. That was one of his minions. There’s lots of ‘em.”

Harry laughed, not entirely kindly. “So what does he need YOU for?”

“Something Sherlock and I started... really, Harry, I can’t go into it. But with Sherlock gone, I’m the only person who could help him.”

“And it’s really dangerous? Like people actually shooting at you and all that?”

“Yeah.”

She glared at me with bloodshot eyes. “Ok. Fine. One more week. Just for you, Johnny.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Thank you, Harry. Thank you.”

I just had to hope she wouldn’t tell anyone (or everyone) about this conversation when she got drunk again.

 

—-

 

It really was good to be home – excepting how the back of my neck itched when I thought about a sniper’s rifle pointed in my direction.

And excepting how empty the flat felt without Sherlock. It was fresh again, the ache. The loneliness. I tried not to let myself hope too much that he would be in Baker Street with me in as little as four or five weeks.... but it was hard to suppress the thrill of joy every time I thought about it.

“Mary!” I hugged her. “You are a sight for weary eyes!”

She hugged back fiercely. “John! Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok!”

“I’m fine.” I said, giving the words a glum edge. “I’m tired. I feel like I’ve aged ten years in the past ten days. But I’m fine. I didn’t mean to worry you – I should have thought about Seb... you haven’t heard anything?”

“No.” She looked small and lost. “It’s two months now. Something terrible must have happened to him.”

“The police haven’t found anything?”

“No. I talked to Inspector Lestrade last week and nothing. No John Does fit his description. No one has used his credit cards or passport. I don’t know what to think.”

“I’m sorry, Mary.”

She sighed – then chucked me on the arm sheepishly. “By the way... you should probably call the Inspector. I mentioned that you’d gone missing too – I’m afraid I was a little hysterical.”

“I’ve been so insensitive... I just didn’t think...”

“Family emergency. You get a pass.” She sipped her drink, regarding me over the rim. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “My sister’s an alcoholic.” I said baldly. “Our father drank himself to death when I was barely thirteen and now Harry... Harry almost killed herself too.”

“God, John, that’s awful.”

“It is.” I agreed. “It’s PERFECTLY awful. That night I ran out of here, she’d drunk so much she passed out... just fell down on the pavement... and by the time paramedics got there, her heart had stopped beating. Her electrolytes were severely unbalanced – alcohol can do that if you drink too much and eat too little... if someone hadn’t called 999 she’d be dead. She’d be dead, Mary.

“As it is she ended up in A&E with a concussion... big, bloody gash in her forehead, black eyes...” I trailed off.

“Is she ok now?” Mary asked.

“Depends how you define “ok.” She’s alive.” I rubbed my eyes again. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be so bitter. I got her into a rehab facility. Some crazy posh place in Switzerland. I flew there with her and stayed while she went through detox.”

“You’re a good brother.”

“Not really. There’s no one else. Mum died when I was at University. It’s just the two of us.”

“That man that came for you – he’s not a relative?”

I’d been waiting for Mary to bring up Mycroft. I had to explain him, make Mary believe it. I’d thought long and hard what to say and, as with Harry, decided to hew as close to the truth as possible.

I laughed humourlessly. “Erm, no.” I said, then wavered. “Perhaps if Sherlock had lived...he’d be my brother-in-law by now... but no, we’re not related.”

“He’s Sherlock’s brother.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re close, then.”

“Erm. No. We’re not even friends really. But we both loved Sherlock... I think he feels that he owes me something – he doesn’t, I’ve told him he doesn’t... “ I felt real tears on my cheeks. “Harry... Harry was drunk again before I left.”

“Oh, John –“ Mary moved to comfort me.

“Don’t!” I held up a warding hand. “Just... don’t tell me it will be ok, that it will all work out. I had to beg her to stay in that... that absurdly posh... resort rehab... place.” I hung my head. “I don’t know why I let Mycroft convince me to send her there! She could wash out of a regular rehab center just as easily...”

“Maybe he feels guilty.” Mary said.

(Does she know that Mycroft gave Moriarty all the ammunition he needed to discredit Sherlock? She must!)

“Mycroft... Mycroft isn’t the sort to bother with guilt. No, he knows what it’s like to worry about a sibling. He worried about Sherlock constantly... not that it made one bloody bit of difference in the end!” I took a deep breath, calmed myself. “He... I don’t know when he decided to keep an eye on Harry. This isn’t the first time he’s found her in trouble. He called last Spring to tell me she was in hospital. I dropped everything, went to help her – she lasted three days. Not even three days...”

“John...”

I focused on Mary again with a sharp intake of breath. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to moan like that.”

“It’s ok...”

“No, it’s not. I’m sucking all the air out of the room. Lets talk about something else.” I took a big slug of my ale. “Tell me more about you. The last time we talked, I monopolised the conversation too.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. You barely got a word in edgewise. You were telling me about your childhood... you were orphaned and had a rough time of it... and then I rushed off.”

“You don’t want to hear about that.”

“I do. I want to know you better. You lost someone you loved, same as me... you know all about Sherlock. I don’t even know your friend’s name.”

“Marcas.” She said. “His name was Marcas.”

The way she said it, with a Celtic lilt, was familiar. “You’ve mentioned him before.”

“He was Seb’s partner.” She said. “Cam’s closest friend. And he saw something in me that no one else ever did – potential.”

“So he was a mentor?”

“Yes. And a friend. And... like a brother to me – he looked out for me the way you do for your sister. Like Sherlock’s brother...” She trailed off.

“What was he like? Marcas?”

Mary paused, searching for the right words. “Fun.” She said. “He was tremendous fun. He had adventures... he loved games – he played them all the time... that’s how we met, he got me involved in a game he was playing. I think if I‘d met him any other way, I would have told him to naff off. But I was completely charmed.”

“What sort of games?”

“All sorts. Puzzles. Games of chance. Competitions. Seb’s partial to card games. Cam loves word games. But Marcas... Marcas was good at everything. He was always devising ways to work play – adventures, excitement – into everyday life.”

Was Marcas Moriarty, I wondered? I was reserving judgment for now. “He sounds... singular.”

“And Sherlock doesn’t!?” Her voice was sharp.

I hadn’t meant for Mary to take offense. (Was my suspicion showing?) “Of course he was – there will never be anyone like Sherlock. Sometimes it was exhausting, but it was always exhilarating.”

She nodded, placated. “I guess Marcas could be exhausting sometimes too. But he was... thrilling... inspiring! I would get swept up in something... bigger than me. I’d have to BE better, smarter... he changed my life.”

I waited, but when it was clear she wasn’t going to say more, I cleared my throat. “What happened to him?” I asked.

“He was killed. Murdered.”

“Oh my god!”

“The police... the police said it was suicide... but it wasn’t.” She railed. “It couldn’t be! He had all sorts of things in the works. He had plans with Seb that evening! I’d been with him that morning and he was good! He didn’t kill himself – there was no note... he didn’t even have a will... suicide doesn’t make sense!” Mary was upset – angry and confused and sad... I understood better than I liked.

“I don’t know if this will mean anything to you...” I said carefully. “But I watched Sherlock jump... I still can’t reconcile that with anything else – everything else – I knew about him. Two minutes before, I would have said Sherlock was the last person who would kill himself. But I saw him do it. I talked to him on the phone right before – he said goodbye...” My voice broke and I shuddered. (Even knowing Sherlock was alive, the memory of that moment still gave me nightmares.) “It makes no sense to me still.” I took her hand and she allowed me to hold it. “Mary, I’m not saying Marcas killed himself. I have no idea. I’m just saying... I understand. I have to believe Sherlock did it to himself because I saw it... but if I hadn’t seen it, nothing would have convinced me he wasn’t forced. Sometimes I still wonder...”

“Wonder what?” She asked sharply.

“There’d been death threats – you expect it in that line of work. And there’d even been attempts to kill him... some more creative than others.“

“You really think it’s possible he was forced to jump? Pushed... or somehow... compelled?” 

(There! She said it: compelled. She knows! She MUST know.) I tried to funnel my turbulent emotions into an answer. “Well, I certainly don’t think he was a fraud! Nor could anything convince me he was so distraught over being THOUGHT a fraud that he’d end it all.” I peered into Mary’s round, rapt eyes. “My point is, I knew him best and I never saw it coming. I can’t explain it – it... it EATS at me. But when it comes down to it, does it matter?! He’s dead. He’s GONE whatever the reason. And I’m still here with... with nothing but memories. And my ridiculous sister and... and his ridiculous brother...” I rubbed my eyes with the flat of my hand, trying to excise the treacherous tears that threatened to fall. 

“Who can say what happened to your Marcas?” I asked her. “It doesn’t change the single worst thing – he’s not with you any longer.”

Mary’s eyes flashed with anger... but then sobered into sadness. “You’re right.” She said. “He’s gone and nothing will change that.” She sounded desolate.

“Tell me more about him.” I said softly. “ A good memory.”

She closed her eyes and ruminated for a long moment. “We went to Venice, just the two of us.” She said finally. “This was before he met Seb, before smartphones and GPS. Venice is a maze, a puzzle, a wonderful place to get lost...

“Every day we would invent a task, sometimes together, sometimes separately – and we would accomplish it – without maps, just our wits and a good sense of direction. I had about ten words of Italian and Marcas had maybe 20... every day we wandered through the city, eating fish and the freshest pasta I’d ever tasted... gelato...”

“What sort of tasks?”

“All sorts... find da Vinci’s war machines... sample gelato from as many different places as we could find... buy an orange leather pocketbook and use it to trap pickpockets... take a tour in the Doge and infiltrate into the places tourists aren’t meant to be – extra points for an unused, abandoned area... walk to a certain landmark and find the note Marcas had hidden with only a few clues... pick a tourist and follow him or her all day without them knowing...

“My favourite was finding the note. I had to find the Peggy Guggenheim first. I love art – and that was a wonderful day, bright and not too hot. It was a long walk to the museum from our hotel – it’s much easier to get there by boat – and I set out early, before Marcas was up. There were a number of people out walking their dogs, such adorable dogs! I pet a little Boston Terrier who’s person spoke no English. I wanted to ask if it was difficult to keep a dog in a city like that...” She sighed, lost in thought. “I knew the museum was on the Grand Canal, so I headed in that direction. I didn’t see a sign for over half an hour. Then I wandered from sign to sign – they were pretty spotty – until finally I found the museum.

“It was Peggy Guggenheim’s house, the museum, an 18th century palace that somehow looks a bit modern, like a mid-century ranch you’d see in... in California. It shows her personal collection of modern paintings and sculpture. Some modern painting is rather dreary, but she had two by De Chirico – one of my favourite artists, his work is so bleak, yet so fanciful... and she had Magritte, Klee, Mondrian, Kandinsky... just some wonderful pieces. What a life she had, to live at the heart of a movement – and to know it! Can you imagine it, John?!”

“I, er, don’t know much about art.”

Mary laughed. “You’ve probably avoided anything that even looked artistic for your entire life.”

“Oh, erm, yeah. Guilty. Yeah.”

“Here...” She pulled out her smartphone and opened her web browser. A few seconds later she held it out to me. It showed a painting of a landscape hemmed in on both sides by dark walls with darker archways leading who knows where. The foreground between them was in shadow. Beyond the shadow, in the center of the painting, was a squat red tower, the top roughly crenelated, against a darkening sky. The tower’s doorway and several small windows were impenetrable black. To one side, part of a monument can be seen, a horse and rider on a tall, stone platform casts a long shadow in front of the tower.

The painting was... oddly disturbing. Vacant yet portentous in a way that made me feel anxious.

“De Chirico.” Mary said. “It’s called The Red Tower.”

“And, yeah, there it is... a red tower... it’s, erm, nice.”

She punched my arm lightly. “You really are useless.”

“I am.” I agreed. “Yeah.” Mary tutted as she put her phone away. “So, erm, did you find the note?” I prompted.

“Oh yes! After I looked at the collection. Marcas had told me to ‘find the angel and have a seat.’ It took a while – The Angel of The City is a sculpture on the canal side of the building, opposite where I entered. There are benches built into the wall right next to it, I searched them for the note – underneath, in the crevices – but didn’t find it... I sat down on one and looked around – I was worried that someone else had found it and thrown it away. But then I saw it, cleverly hidden within the sculpture itself, the same colours and flush with the metal. Almost impossible to see until it fluttered in the breeze, just a little.”

Mary smiled to herself, satisfied with the memory of her accomplishment. “Marcas was very pleased. We had proseco with dinner.”

“What did it say? The note?” I asked.

“Oh!” That seemed to surprise her – she looked wary for a second. Then she smiled again and poked my arm. “That’s private, John Watson.” She said. 

“Sounds like there’s more to this story.” I teased.

“Maybe.” She said. “You’ll never know.”

“How about after a few more of these?” I hefted my empty glass and signaled the bartender. 

Mary laughed. “You’re planning on getting me drunk?”

“No... no – well, not PLANNING on it.”

She laughed again, a merry sound like the tinkling of little bells. It made me feel warm inside, and happy... suddenly I saw how right Sherlock was – Mary WAS exactly the type of woman I had always been drawn to. I HAD to question everything I knew about her – was she really like this? Or was she playing a role, trying to get me to like her? Had she been cast in this role? Coached, taught, to be someone I found attractive?

No one would go to that trouble for ME. This was absolutely about Sherlock. And the only person who was so obsessed with Sherlock – who would go to these lengths AS A BACKUP – was Moriarty.

Is that who Mary was describing? Or was she making Marcas up wholesale? If she were, why not make it a romantic partner that she’d lost, instead of a mentor? Something I could identify with. Someone I could, in theory, replace.

When she talked about Marcas it had a ring of authenticity. Mary HAD been in Venice on holiday, she had pet an adorable dog and spent time at the Peggy Guggenheim. She had found the note – there was more to that story, I was certain. But in all that, I’d learned very little about Marcas. She’d talked more about herself in relation to him, than about him directly.

If he was Moriarty... it shone a whole new light on Seb Moran. If they were lovers, he HAD to blame Sherlock for Moriarty’s death. (He and Mary both.) Moran would be obsessed with making certain Sherlock was truly dead. He was surely still watching me, even two years later.

Moran had to be found and neutralized before Sherlock came home.

“Mary, what can I do to help you find Seb?” I asked.

“I don’t know, John. I’m at my wits end. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well... what do we know about him? He was army... maybe someone he served with has seen or heard from him?” I warmed to this idea. “And there are any number of bases – and barracks! – in and around London. I could make some enquiries...”

“Would you?!” Mary asked gratefully. Then her face fell. “It’s such a long shot... I don’t want to waste your time, John.”

“It would be less a waste than taking Harry to rehab.” I said bitterly. “Sorry. I just want to feel... useful. And I want to help, if I can.”

“You’re very sweet.”

I shrugged. “You’ve already lost someone... it doesn’t seem right that you have to go through that again.” I said gently. “And especially not knowing if he’s even alive... you should know that at least.”

“But how? The police haven’t found anything.”

I shook my head. “Forget the police. I have some contacts in some of the morgues in the city, I can talk to them. Do you have a picture of Seb? I could show it around.”

“I think I do.” She retrieved her phone from her handbag.

“See what you can find.” I said. “You work at hospital – you could talk to the A&E staff, show them a photo. Maybe they’ve seen him.”

“But what would I say? I’m just a friend, they can’t give me any information even if they have it.”

“Tell them he’s your brother and he’s off his meds. Trust me, that will get their attention.”

“You think I should lie? I’m terrible at lying.” She said.

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “Is that his photo?” I asked turning her phone so I could see. “That’s a good one – airdrop it to me.” She did and I checked my smartphone to make sure I’d gotten it. (Too bad I had to go on a date with the man for the cops to get almost exactly this!) 

Which made me think... “Mary... Seb and Marcas were together, why would Seb be interested in going out with ME? I’m not exciting. I’m not anything like that... “

She took my hand. “You don’t see yourself like others see you, John. And what about you? Seb’s nothing like Sherlock... what made you want to go out with him?”

“Good point.” (I HADN’T wanted to go out with Moran – it had been an attempt to deliver him into the hands of the police.) “Maybe that’s why – thinking about Sherlock is too hard. I like that Seb’s different. He’s former military, like me, I thought we could have something in common. And he’s... charming.” I shook my head. “I fucked that up massively... I should have known – I did know! I just thought... it’s been years, yeah. It’s time to get on with it.” I grimaced. “I want to get on with it.” I sighed and squeezed Mary’s hand. “I’ll start making calls in the morning, reach out to some old friends in the army, see what I can find out. Seb has to be somewhere.”

“I appreciate it, John. Even if nothing comes of it, I appreciate it. I already feel less alone.”

“I don’t like to think of you feeling lonely.” I told her and she smiled at me gratefully.

We left not long after that, separating in the Underground with a quick hug to take different trains home – but not before I saw the compact form of Staelich trailing after Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John really should know more about art.
> 
>  
> 
> More to come! Working on another chapter now.


	16. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this one! I've been indulging myself and reading some porny Johnlock (instead of writing, I admit it) and was rather inspired. The course of true love never did run smooth, but John and Sherlock need a bit of a respite after all they've been through – especially Sherlock!
> 
> However, if it's going to ruin your life to realise that sometimes a top will bottom – on a whim or to help care for his traumatised boyfriend – then you should skip this chapter. Actually, just skip the rest of the story. If you don't like the tea, don't drink it.

SHERLOCK 

 

"Bored."

"Is that it?"

"Yes. Obvious. You asked how I'm feeling, I'm feeling desperately bored."

"I meant in relation to your recovery, William."

"Oh. Right. In relation to my recovery I'm...let me think... BORED. All this..." I waved a hand at the room, encompassing the circle of chairs, their inhabitants and the counselor. "... is boring. Dreadfully, mind-numbingly boring." I sat in one of the chairs. I'd been meditating on the passage of clouds out the window when Walter, the counselor, interrupted to ask his banal questions.

"Mm." Walter moved on to another victim, but I could tell he wasn't finished with me. And indeed when group was over he said, "William, would you mind sticking around for a minute?"

So I stayed in my chair. I had my knees pulled up to my chest and now I rested my chin on them and waited.

Walter sat on the chair next to me with his best 'I'm relatable' expression. "You've been through rehab before." He said. It wasn't a question so I simply shrugged. "Was it boring then?

"Incredibly." I said. 

"How did you get through it?"

"There were distractions."

"What sort of distractions?"

"Smoking and sex." I told him. "Smoking put me in a better mood. And when it got desperate - and it was always desperate - I found someone to shag."

Walter wanted to frown, I could tell, but his desire to be 'friendly and accessible' kept his expression neutral.

"But it's moot. I don't do that anymore." I said carelessly.

"You don't smoke?" Walter asked.

"No. And I don't screw around."

"Are you saying that because it's against the rules." He asked.

I scoffed. "No. I have a relationship now. I don't want anyone else."

Walter nodded and it was obvious he thought he had found a way to 'crack' me. "It's important to you, this relationship?"

"Clearly."

"So you want to be sober for this relationship."

"Among other reasons, yes."

"Have you thought about why you relapsed?"

"It's not important." I said, looking out the window again.

"It IS important." He insisted. "Consider this: maybe you relapsed because you didn't take rehab seriously enough. If you want to get back to your girlfriend, it's time to abandon this 'bored' pose and start working at it."

I stared him down. "You're an idiot." I told him. "A heterosexist idiot, at that. As for my relapse, it's COMPLETELY different this time."

"Heterosexist... you're gay...?"

"Very good." I said with an edge of sarcasm. I could see Walter was abashed.

"What's his name?"

I felt myself responding to his interest and resented it. "John."

"Ok. Tell me why this time is different, William. Other than that you don't smoke and have John."

I looked at the clouds out the window. I always chose this chair, it had the best view. "When I was using before, it was BECAUSE I was bored - because I had nothing in my life that meant anything. Rehab was boring, but no more boring than anything else."

"But now you have something."

"My work. Everything good that I have - including John - has come from my work."

"You're passionate about it."

"Yes."

"But you can't work when you're high."

"Well... I could argue in favour of cocaine... but certainly not heroin."

Walter smiled briefly, then sobered. "How did you relapse, William?"

I pulled my knees in tighter, hugging them against my chest. I could feel my heart begin to race. "It was forced on me." I told him. "On a job. I had been kidnapped and they used heroin to keep me docile."

"That's terrible!" Walter said with feeling. "It must have been very traumatic. Thank you for sharing that with me."

"I don't want to talk about it." I told him.

"I can understand that. But if you change your mind, I'm here."

"I won't."

He smiled, seemingly in spite of himself. "Ok. How else is this time different?"

I considered. "I never injected heroin before. I smoked it ... a lot... and snorted. And I had a significant cocaine habit. Mainlining heroin... it's so much more intense... it's difficult not to want it."

"I know."

"Do you?" I asked sharply. "You do... you were a heroin addict." I observed.

Walter nodded. "Still am, just in recovery. But it wasn't forced on me, I did it to myself. That was decades ago and I still feel the pull."

"How do you bear it?"

"I work hard at my sobriety. I go to meetings. I ask for help when I need it. And like you, I think about everything in my life that I love that would disappear if I started shooting heroin again."

I sighed. Twelve step meetings were dreadful. "I just want to go home." I moaned. "I've had to travel a lot recently, and..." I shook my head. "...now this. It feels like I'll never get there." I paused. "At the same time, I've been away so long... I don't know if I CAN go home."

"It's completely normal to feel that way, William. Tell me what you're afraid of."

"I miss John." I said. "I miss him so much. But we've been apart for... for a long time now. Maybe too long."

"When did you see him last?"

"Before I came here. After I detoxed. I didn't want to see him whilst I went through that."

"Why not?"

"I want him to love me not be disgusted by me. I couldn't bear to see that on his face."

"Did you give him a chance?"

"Too big of a risk."

"William, tell me about John. What is he like?"

"John is... John is wonderful. He's the bravest and strongest person I've ever met. He makes me better - better at my work, better at life, and just... better." Walter's probing aside, I found that I liked talking about John. "We were friends first - we got on right away. We... we laughed together. I'd always been alone, always expected to be, but suddenly there was this person I could depend on. He was there when I needed him... always ... It was intoxicating." I smiled to myself caught up in the memories. "I tried not to fall in love with him. I thought it would be hopeless - he always maintained that he was straight. And I'd always kept my private life very separate. But I've never known anyone like him. I didn't want to love him, but I did. Of course I did. When he found out how I felt... I hoped he could set it aside and continue our friendship... I never dreamed..."

"John fell in love with you too."

"Yes. Incomprehensibly."

"The man you've described, he wouldn't think you were disgusting, William."

I hugged my legs tightly and examined my stockinged toes. "You don't know..."

"What don't I know?"

"When I was being held hostage... it wasn't just the heroin. There was... torture. I thought I could handle it... but it was worse - far worse - than I'd imagined. They turned me into an animal - filthy, cowering, doing anything they asked for the next hit. One of them... one of them kept me like a pet, pimping me out to the others when he didn't want me himself." My hands were shaking despite how tightly they were clasped. "I took comfort knowing that they were going to kill me - that John would never see me like that..." I looked up at Walter. I hadn't meant to say so much. I didn't want to talk about this. "I WANTED to die."

"William, I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

"I deleted the memories - I do that with extraneous trivia, move them out to make room for more important things. But I have nightmares... and it all comes back."

"This sort of trauma... I don't think it's the sort of thing you can just ... delete. There's too much fallout. I think you'll have to work through it."

"But how? HOW!?" I demanded. "I have to get rid of it! Otherwise how do I go home? How do I go back?"

"I think ...." Walter started gently. "... you talk about it. You do things to reestablish control of your own life - like getting sober. Maybe trying an antidepressant. It's a process."

I made a frustrated noise - I didn't have TIME for a process! John wouldn't wait forever.

"Have you talked to John about this?" Walter asked. "About how you feel?"

"A little."

"What did he say?"

"He said I shouldn't worry about him. He said the worst thing that could happen would be to lose me... but he already has! I'm not the same..." I suddenly felt short of breath.

"William, don't panic. Do you trust John?"

"More than anyone on earth." I gasped.

"Then take him at his word."

I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing. Walter was right... but I couldn't shake the feeling that John would be repulsed by me when he really got a good look at me now - a beat-down, whored-out junkie.

"I think..." Walter said, breaking into my reverie. "... that you might be projecting your own feelings onto John. This is about you, not him."

He was right. It showed how impaired I was that I hadn't realised it myself. I was turning into an idiot!

"It's not your fault, William. Stop beating yourself up. This is something terrible that happened to you, not something you deserved."

"If that's true, it's too easy to pity myself enough to get high. It stops the pain... if it's not my fault why should I have to bear it?"

"It's not fair. It's not fair, and it feels impossibly hard, but you CAN do it. You can get through this. You can get sober."

I hoped he was right.

 

\--

 

"William Scott? Phone call."

I was in the rec room watching a cocaine junkie across the room making plans to hook up with a meth addict later in the laundry room. I couldn't hear them from where I reclined on a sofa but it was obvious. I wondered that the staff didn't do more to discourage it.

Before I was distracted, I had been composing. It was easier to do with my violin, but I hadn't touched an instrument in over two years. I composed in my head, letting the melody flow through my brain, seeing the notes... it kept my mind busy, kept me from dwelling on my situation.

I heaved myself up and trudged to the office. We weren't allowed to have mobiles and though it would have been easy enough to smuggle one in, I had dutifully handed mine over. I knew from experience that if I wanted to stay clean, I needed to follow most of the stupid rules here as a matter of principle. (Last time I had regularly broken the rule against engaging in sex with the other addicts and staff, one had to draw the line somewhere.)

"Ten minutes." The administrator told me, gesturing at a hard chair next to a wall mounted phone.

"This is William Scott." I said into the receiver.

"How delightful to hear your voice, brother mine." Mycroft said.

"How is John? Is he ok?" I asked, unable to think about our other business until I knew.

"Perfectly Fine. He's met up with Mary Morstan three times and has thus far managed to misunderstand her flirting as friendliness." Mycroft said. "He misses you, of course."

I breathed a sigh of relief. A weight lifted from my heart - I hadn't realised how worried for him I had been. "And?" I asked. "You're having her tailed? What have you discovered?"

He told me and we made plans and contingency plans. I was briefly and pleasantly reminded of my childhood when Mycroft would come home from University. We would sequester ourselves in his room and I would tell him everything I had observed since he was there last. Some things he'd have to explain to me - why Mr. Shepard followed the butcher's boy behind the shops after all his deliveries were made, for example, or what Miss Greene's knowingly arched eyebrow meant when she smiled at Mr. Bilby's attempts to be charming...

We would make elaborate plans together. Usually an attempt to surprise and/or outsmart Mummy - I had loved it when I was able to truly surprise her, it happened so seldom. She could read her children, her household and the people of the village so well I had assumed she could hear my thoughts - and everyone else's - until I was seven years old. (I still couldn't quite shake the conviction when she looked at me a certain way.) 

When had Mycroft and I stopped combining forces? After the fiasco with Victor Trevor. I had not forgiven my brother for 'rescuing' me, instead I began to avoid him. Mycroft had graduated University and gone off to work in London and I had gone away to Eton at about the same time ... surly adolescence had hit me hard and only contributed to my desire to cut him out. Drug addiction was just the cherry on the sundae of our estrangement.

Eventually the rehab administrator came back and cleared her throat meaningfully.

"Two weeks." I told Mycroft. "You'll have it all in order?"

"Certainly. Will YOU be ready by then?"

"For this? Yes!" 

I rang off and returned to the rec room. There I flopped back down on the sofa and returned to composing. I had started a new piece in rehab - it was tempestuous and violent and my fingers ached for my violin.

 

\--

 

I was leaving rehab today. I put on a suit - the first time I'd worn anything but pyjamas since I'd left hospital. It felt both strange and refreshing.

In the shower earlier, I had touched myself - I hadn't done since before prison. My surgical incisions were healed, leaving behind several small, bright scars on my abdomen. They were still sensitive but my insides had stopped feeling vaguely torn up. My nipples were hard under my fingers and my cock was interested. It felt the same in my hand as it ever had. Its reliability was comforting.

I knew delayed orgasm was a side effect of the anti-depressants I had started taking and I'd been feeling anxious about it. So I focused on the sensations, not an end result. I had a long, slow wank thinking about John... I loved touching him: his compact, perfectly proportioned body, the strength in his arms and thighs, his firm arse, twin handfuls of muscle. I loved his hands, square and deft and so, so sensitive, always finding just the right places to touch me... his mouth, the way it traveled over my skin, hot and wet and unrelenting... the heavy weight of his bollocks, the satin covered steel of his cock... the smell of his arousal... the feel of him filling my mouth, stretching... the taste...

I came suddenly, unexpectedly, shooting so hard it hit the far wall. I leaned against the tile shuddering with each sharp shock - four, five, six before I was finished. I was destroyed by the pleasure, shaking with aftershocks, weak in the knees and craving John more than ever, missing him.

If only the desire for heroin didn't sing so insistently in my blood...

Walter was waiting for me - the obligatory exit interview. I dreaded it.

"How are you feeling about going home?"

"Oh. Erm... fine."

Walter's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Fine? All you've talked about for weeks is how much you love London, how you can't wait to see John. Aren't you excited?"

"Yes. Excited. That's it exactly."

"It's ok to feel frightened." Walter said. "I'd be worried if you weren't."

"How about abject terror? Is that ok?"

"Tell me what you're afraid of, William."

"Do you know how EASY it is to get heroin in London? Or here, for that matter - I could score on the way to the train station..."

Walter's laugh is an unamused bark. "You think I don't know?! After almost thirty years, I STILL find myself looking for ways to score."

"What do you do?" The words were soft but it was a desperate cry, a plea.

"I go to a meeting. I call my sponsor. I pray."

I rolled my eyes involuntarily at the last. The ridiculous 'higher power' again.

"Or in your case," Walter said, "repeat your mantras - you have your mantras?"

I nodded. I did have several, but they too felt ridiculous. 

"I know it doesn't come easily for you - but it WILL help. Don't talk yourself out of it, William."

"Fine." I muttered.

"And you're very good at meditating. That will be invaluable for you."

"It's not meditation. It's deep thought." I informed him scathingly. "My mind is never blank."

He chuckled. "Then think deeply about your sobriety. It helps." He patted me on the back as we approached the doors. "Take this." He said, handing me a card. "My number's on it. If you feel overwhelmed, feel like you're going to relapse, call me. Day or night."

I took the card. "Thank you." I told him and bid him goodbye. I sincerely hoped I wouldn't find myself back in his care again.

 

\--

 

London! I HAD missed it! The smells, the sounds, the familiar neighbourhoods, the streets...

I'd told Walter I was taking the train, but Mycroft sent a helicopter - it was easier to go unnoticed. John's life depended on my remaining unnoticed.

We landed on the helipad adjacent to Mycroft's home and I spent less than a minute in the open. As soon as I got inside, I dropped my bag and headed straight for the tunnels in the basement. I took the one that would get me closest to Baker Street.

It was dusk by the time I emerged. My hair was short - it had grown out since being shaved in hospital, but the dark waves weren't yet long enough to be unruly. I wore a suit, but not my Belstaff coat - I'd opted for a khaki trench and trilby instead. I could hide behind the collar and under the brim, the unfamiliar clothing a better disguise that anything more elaborate. I was anonymous, just another city boy on his way home from work.

I made my way to Baker Street and slipped in via the alley - I had to pick the lock (shielded by Mrs. Hudson's bins), but once inside, I was relieved to see the crate Mycroft had promised had been delivered. It stood sentry-like between Mrs. Hudson's back door and kitchen.

Suddenly I was exhausted. I sat down in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen chairs and listened - the stillness around me betrayed the flat's emptiness... the whole building's emptiness. I was disappointed, I'd hoped to see John... hold him... feel his arms around me...

I threw the trilby onto the table, hating the thing (I loathed wearing hats almost as much as ties. So strange that I was linked with the bloody ear hat!). I forced myself to raid Mrs. Hudson's larder - I was nowhere near healthy enough to ignore my body's needs, much as I was wont to. It was a difficult habit to overcome, but I found homemade muffins, mixed nuts, beetroot juice and a banana and told myself if I ate a handful of nuts and the banana, I could have a muffin or two. The beetroot juice washed it all down satisfactorily. Whilst I ate, I decided I would wait for John to come home. I had been without him far too long. Far, FAR too long.

The tedious chore of feeding myself done, I turned to the crate standing guard over Mrs. Hudson's mud room. I began to pry it open (with the prybar thoughtfully taped to the side) - it took longer than I liked, it was securely packed and my hands weren't as steady as they should be. But I was glad to see its contents had not been damaged. 

It was a strange thing and I had to admit I did not like it. But it would serve its purpose, I thought, quite well. In the meantime, I shoved it into a corner and covered it with one of Mrs. Hudson's clean linens - I didn't want to frighten her with it. I stowed the crate and packings neatly in the mud room.

I heard the outside door open - for an instant I thought the lady herself had returned (handy that, I could acquaint her with her guest) - then I heard John's laugh.

My rush of joy was quickly tempered by a second set of feet following him into the front hall. Then I heard her laughter joining John's.

I crept through the first floor flat to the front door. There was no spy hole, but I could hear them perfectly. Hearing John's voice made me want to weep.

"...just grab it for you, or would you like to come in for a drink? Erm... I don't have much, come to think of it. Tea. Maybe a beer... I wasn't expecting company."

"Tea sounds lovely, actually." The woman said, not taking John's rather unsubtle hint. She had a soft, melodic voice, very feminine. Whoever she was, I hated her. "Is this yours?" Mrs. Hudson's door knob rattled suddenly, making me jump back from the door.

"That's my landlady. She must not be home or she'd be out here by now, wanting to see who I've brought home." John said. "I'm up here."

"This is a great location - right in central London!" The woman exclaimed as they began to climb the stairs. "I'm way out in the suburbs. How did you find this place?"

I strained to hear John's answer. "...friend knew... landlady. She..." I couldn't make out anything else. I listened to the creak of their footsteps upstairs - it was muffled and distant, the high ceilings and thick floors doing a good enough job that I couldn't be certain where they were. Kitchen and/or lounge, I thought. At least I was sure they weren't in the bedroom.

I had sunk down in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, my back to her front door, still wearing the khaki trench coat. Who was this woman with John? Was it Mary worming her way into John's life, spying on him for Moriarty's sniper? Or someone else - some attractive woman he'd met in the past two years, someone who flirted gently with him hoping he would respond in kind? It was comforting that John hadn't wanted her to come upstairs, but I was still so very jealous - she was WITH him, sharing space, breathing the same air... 

"I accept the things I can't change…" I subvocalised, mouthing the words over and over. Mantras are stupid, I thought, but I didn't stop repeating the phrase. It would be easy to score heroin - walk out Mrs. Hudson's back door, grab the Underground to Camden…it would be so easy to score there. I'd need works… that might be more difficult - I never shared needles, not even in prison - but not so difficult I couldn't be blissfully nodding off within a couple hours. I even had a bolt hole in Camden Town where I could retreat with the drugs… "I accept the things I can't change…" The words were meaningless now, just nonsense syllables murmured again and again. Like a magic spell. What spell was I casting? What was I trying to accomplish?

I must have dozed - I jerked awake at the sound of feet descending the stairs.

"...been to Venice, you really should. It's like no other place in the world. The city itself is a work of art." 

"I've been to Florence, is it very different?" John said to the woman. He sounded interested, invested... but I thought I detected a note of impatience in his voice. 

"Steady on." I muttered. If it was Mary, it wouldn't do to give the game away now.

"It's night and day!" The woman exclaimed. "Getting lost in Florence is like getting lost in London - it's just irritating. Getting lost in Venice is the best way to discover its riches. The city is MADE for losing your way. It's wonderful."

"Not irritating at all?" John asked, humour in his tone.

"Not in the least!" 

I heard the street door open with relief. I was already sick of the woman's nattering. I didn't know how John could stand it.

"I'll have to go sometime." John said. "It'd be like being back in the army, going on holiday by myself... maybe Venice should wait until I have someone to go with."

She paused and it was three seconds too long. She wanted to be John's traveling companion, that was completely clear even with a door between us. Over my dead body, I thought - then remembered that that was exactly her intent.

"Don't wait too long." Was all she said. Then there was silence and I knew - I KNEW - she was kissing him. I ground my teeth with hatred - although it meant he wasn't leaving with her. "Thanks for the loaner... and the tea." She said. "You're the best." Another silence - she was kissing him again! I found myself on my feet, pressing my ear to Mrs. Hudson's front door, straining to hear exactly what was happening.

"Yeah. Erm... no problem." John stuttered. "Take your time with it."

"Thanks!"

"Yeah... bye..."

Another interminable silence ... then finally - FINALLY - John closed and locked the street door.

I had Mrs. Hudson's door unlatched and flung open in an instant. John whirled around in surprise, hands lifted defensively. When he saw it was me, he froze - and for a moment I was frozen too, suspended in the sublimity of his blue-gray gaze... then I flowed forwards into him, touching him, holding him, pressing him against the far wall (the same wall we'd leaned against and laughed after chasing the cabbie our first night together) and kissing him frantically.

John uttered a small 'oof' as he impacted the wall, his breath gusting against my chin, but it did not deter his hands from grabbing hold of me, his arms from wrapping around me. He opened his mouth for my kisses and returned them with gratifying fervour. I wanted to consume him completely, make him part of me, make us a single being that could never again be parted.

"Sherlock...!" John moaned as I sunk my teeth into his jaw. "Sherlock!" He pulled me tightly against him, his mouth on my neck, his hands on my arse. I felt the firmness of his burgeoning erection and ground my own against it, groaning in pleasure. "Sherlock..." John's hands had moved to my shoulders, holding me still, pushing me back slightly. "Sherlock, let me look at you." He said. "You're well? You're... good?"

It had been six weeks since we'd walked together in Germany - we'd had no contact since. Any information about me - my health, my recovery - would have come from Mycroft, and they limited contact as much as possible. (From both necessity and inclination.) 

I let him look me over, examining his expression as his eyes traveled over me. I couldn't help but worry that I wouldn't measure up... but John swept me back into his embrace and I buried my face against his hair, trembling with relief.

"Are you home?" John asked, and I heard in his voice all the yearning of the past two years.

"Not officially." I told him. "Not until we take care of Sebastian Moran."

"But you have a plan?" He asked plaintively. "We're going to take care of him!?"

"Yes." I assured him. "Yes!"

John kissed me and I fell into it, into him, immersed myself in him - the whole world his lips and tongue and teeth, the rasp of his stubbly chin and the warmth of his breath. I lost track of time, my whole being preoccupied with John's kisses. Until he gripped my arse again and pulled me against him, our cocks, hard and straining in our trousers, rubbing together. That brought me back into my body.

"Take me to bed." I moaned.

"Yes!" John said quickly. "Oh, yes!"

He kissed me again then tugged me up the stairs. At the top, I pinned him again, staying one step below him, our mouths level for once. I was content to snog there until I felt his prick throb against my hip.

"Bed." I said. I turned and opened the door to our flat - our home! I took a deep breath as John kissed my neck. It smelled as it always had, of tea and dust and faint traces of takeaway curries. The odour was, perhaps, less caustic without my chemical experiments, but I would remedy that soon enough. I stepped into the doorway and stopped. Light from the streets outside flooded the room. "The curtains are open." I said.

"Fuck." John swore, arms still around me. "Mary opened them."

I edged back into the stairwell. "They're watching." I said. "HE'S watching."

"I'll close them." John said.

"No. Not right away. You should be in there already... this is suspicious..."

"Upstairs." John said into my ear. "The blinds are closed up there. I'll turn on the light after you're in bed move around a bit... make it look like I'm working up there."

"It's risky." I said. 

"It's that or I have you right here on the stairs." John growled. I felt it rumble through my body, making me harder, making me shiver with desire - desire too long unfelt.

"I'll go up." I whispered. "You go change, get a drink, get your laptop or some books then come up and turn on the light."

"You'd better be naked when I get there." John said.

I shivered again. "I will." I promised. "Hurry - no, you should take your time... but hurry."

"Yeah... ok." He kissed me again then left me in the hall.

I missed his touch immediately. I climbed to the third floor, to John's bedroom before we shared the larger one downstairs. I crouched down before opening the door, to be certain the blinds were closed. They were. I knelt there a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The room was crowded with... my things. I examined them, squinting in the darkness. There were stacks of books that had been on the shelves by my desk, my chemistry equipment - some in open boxes, some not, my music stand, the case for my microscope with, presumably, my microscope in it, and several large cartons piled atop each other shoved behind the rest of the mess. I examined them, one was labeled 'shoes/socks,' another 'clothes,' yet another 'music.' Perched on top was the Cluedo game with my knife stuck into it and my skull.

I wondered what the rest of the flat looked like, denuded of my presence. It made me feel glum... feel like John had stuffed me up here and forgotten about me...

I kicked off my shoes and took off the belted trench and my suit jacket, draping them over my music stand. I stretched out on John's bed - it was made, but was a bit dusty, forgotten like everything else up here. Apropos that I should be here too, I thought mournfully, wondering what was taking him so long. "I accept the things I can't change…"

Eventually I heard John climbing the stairs. He paused in the doorway. "Sherlock?" He asked, blind in the dark room.

"I'm here." I said. "On the bed."

"Ok. I'm turning the light on." I closed my eyes to avoid the shock, opening them slowly after he flipped on the desk lamp. John was wearing pyjama pants and a t-shirt under a dressing gown. He came into the room, laptop in one hand, beer bottle in the other. "You're still dressed." He said. 

"I was distracted..." 

John saw my unhappiness. "Hey, what's wrong?" He asked.

"Nothing… just… all my stuff up here..."

John set his laptop and drink on the desk under the window then sat on the bed, his hand resting lightly on my knee. "I kept it for you." He said. "I wanted to have it all for when you came home... for now. But to everyone else, you're dead... I couldn't live in a mausoleum, surrounded by everything of yours, when I was supposed to be grieving." He squeezed my leg. "Before I knew you hadn't died, I was ready to move out entirely. I couldn't bear to be here without you." 

"How could you move out? This is your home."

"It is when you're here." John said. He leaned over and kissed me soundly. "I'm so glad you're here. I've missed you... I can't tell you how I've missed you... sometimes I even came up here... talked to the skull..."

I pulled him to me, relief and shame that I had doubted him, even a little, washing through me. He lay down with me, kissing my neck, my jaw, his deft hands running over my torso and my arms. He began unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it aside to caress my skin, his fingers hot. I felt my hunger for him returning, my blood running high, hardening my prick. I kissed him, my hands finding their way under his t-shirt, stroking his muscular chest. I found a nipple and circled it with my thumb, delighting in how hard it became, how John moaned into my mouth. 

I felt his arousal now, pressing against my hip insistently, his pyjamas doing nothing to restrain it. I turned onto my side, facing him, nipping at his lips and chin. He captured my mouth with his and I surrendered to his kisses, his tongue masterful. I had had so many lovers through the years, but none had ever made me feel a fraction what John did with one stroke of his amazing tongue.

"What are you smiling about?" John asked, stroking my hair. It was too short to fall anywhere close to my eyes, but he pushed it back from my forehead anyway.

"I'm so happy right now." I told him. "This is all I've wanted for so long."

John kissed my neck, the shell of my ear, his hand still in my hair. "I've been so worried about you... so afraid you wouldn't come back..." He was hiding his eyes from me. 

I faltered... I had very nearly died in that prison - and two or three times before that. I had WANTED to die in prison. Sometimes I still wish I had. "I'm here now." I told him. "I'm here." Such as I am, I added silently.

He kissed me like it was oxygen, all of his need, all of his love in the press of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. It was the best thing I'd felt in a long, long time. I was amazed anew that I had somehow secured the love of this man. Even after years apart, he still wanted me.

"Make love to me." I said. "John."

He made an affirmative noise his hands moving over my body, stroking my chest and sides, unfastening my flies. I gasped when he touched me, my breath gusting hot across John's cheek. "I've missed you so much he murmured, kissing me, stroking me. "I missed you..."

I tugged at his shirt and he shed it. "You too." He whispered, plucking at my shirt as he rolled half on top of me. I pulled the tails from my trousers - but I felt trapped, all of a sudden. I fought a wave of panic, feeling cold sweat blooming all over my body. I stopped myself from snapping at John, shoving him off me. I loved John! I trusted John! What was I doing?!

"Your hands are shaking." John said, taking hold of them. He brought them to his lips and kissed them, first one and then the other. "You're shaking all over." He observed. 

I was. I was trembling, my heart racing, my breathing shallow. John rolled back onto the bed and cuddled next to me, stroking my hair. "It's all right." He crooned. "You're with me now. You're safe."

I hadn't even realised I was afraid. But I was. I was terrified. "I'm being stupid." I gasped, trying to catch my breath. 

"No. You aren't." John countered. "We don't have to - "

"I want this - I want you!" I cried. "I do!" I pulled his hand to my erection. It strained against my pants in the open flies of my trousers, even as I shook with fear. "I need you!"

"Ok." John agreed. "Yeah. Let's go more slowly, yeah? Why don't you get on top?" He stretched out on his back, abdominal muscles rippling, and urged me to straddle his hips. He stroked my thighs gently. It helped, being on top. I felt my heart rate slow as the panic abated. I caressed his face with almost-steady fingers and leaned over to kiss him. He kissed back with enthusiasm, but his hands didn't clutch or pull at me. He kept them on my hips and thighs, rubbing soothing circles. 

I finished unbuttoning my shirt and flung it aside, pulling my vest over my head. "Take your pants off." I told him. 

"You take them off me." John said grinning wickedly. 

I did, stripping them down his legs. Then shoved my own trousers down and off, pants included. I felt exposed, suddenly, uncomfortably so. I quickly straddled John again and lay on top of him. I felt less vulnerable this way. 

I rubbed my cock against his - it felt insanely good. Better than I remembered. I put my mouth on his and we kissed and kissed, rutting lazily. "I love how you touch me." John breathed. "Can I… I want you in my mouth." He moaned sounding desperate. "Can I suck you?"

The thought had liquid seeping from the tip of my prick, smearing on his belly. "You must be terribly out of practice." I teased. 

"I am. I'm desperate for another lesson."

I paused. Another, different, shock of fear buzzing through me. "John…" I began, faltering. "John, I've tested negative for HIV… but I had gonorrhea." It was excruciating to admit - I burned with the humiliation. 

John sat up and kissed my chest, my neck, my collarbone. "I know. I have your medical files."

"I should use a condom." I said bleakly.

"Sherlock, you're cured. You don't have any STDs, thank god. We don't need condoms."

"But…"

John's hand slid around my erection and stroked it slowly, twisting his wrist and smearing the liquid welling from the tip down the shaft. I gasped with pleasure, feeling my prick harden even more. "It's safe." John said. "Trust me. I'm a doctor, yeah." 

I searched his eyes - John was so, SO beautiful, his expressive face firm with determination. And he was right, I'd taken the antibiotics and all subsequent tests were negative. But I still felt soiled. Diseased. "You're certain?" I asked.

He tightened his fist around my cock as he stroked. "Oh yeah. Let me suck you, Sherlock. I need to taste you."

I moaned. "If you… insist." I said, my voice husky with lust.

John looked into my eyes. So much love in his deep, blue-gray gaze. "Scoot up, then." He suggested, laying back. "Sit on my chest and fuck my mouth."

I moaned again, my cock throbbing - we'd never tried this position. I moved up his body, settling my knees in front of his shoulders, his arms between my calves and thighs. John stroked my arse lovingly as I positioned the head of my penis at his lips. He tilted his head forward and took the head into his mouth, groaning with want. He sucked and his talented tongue lavished attention on my cockhead, lapping up the liquid desire seeping from it. 

I put my hands on either side of his head and pushed my hips forward, into his mouth. His hum of approval vibrated up my erection and into my balls. John's mouth was amazing - I'd forgotten how amazing, how hot and wet and willing... He pressed softly on my arse, urging me forwards and I thrust, feeling his throat contracting around me. It was incredible! So, so good. I pulled back and thrust again, deeper into his throat. I began to fuck John's beautiful mouth, violating his throat, pushing myself as deeply as I could. My balls struck his chin with each stroke. I could feel the orgasm building within them as they tightened and thrust harder, faster. It was heaven. It was John! My John! I was almost there! I grunted, sweating, searching for the rhythm that would tip me over… I gasped with equal parts pleasure and effort, ramming my cock into John over and over and over… but I just… couldn't get there…

I pulled out abruptly, a long trail of saliva stretching between John's mouth and my prick as I leaned back. I huffed in frustration. 

"What's wrong? Sherlock…?" His face was red and wet with drool, his voice rough.

"It's the antidepressants." I spat. "I can't… I can't climax." I flung myself down beside him, still panting. I felt grim - I'd disappointed John and I hated myself for that. And I worried...

But John was still so hard, his cock flushed purple, the foreskin pushed way back revealing the tender head. It twitched and throbbed. I took hold of it, wrapping my long fingers around it and John moaned. It wouldn't take him long, I could tell - the musky scent of his arousal made it plain.

"Stop…" John managed. "Wait."

I slowed my hand but didn't let go. "Let me do this for you." I said, caressing him. "You feel so good in my hand." He did. And I felt desperate to please him, mitigate his disappointment with me…

"N-not yet." He stuttered. "You first."

"Waste of time." I said, my lips thinning into a grimace. "I'm here with you. That's enough."

"Stop." John said again, stilling my hand. "It's not a waste. Look, you're on antidepressants for a reason, yeah?"

I closed my eyes, buried my face in his shoulder. "Yeah." I said softly. I felt myself shivering helplessly.

"Is it working?"

I sighed. I didn’t want to talk about this. "I've stopped wishing I'd died in prison." I admitted. "Coming home seems… less overwhelming…"

"Oh, Sherlock!" John hugged me to his chest and kissed my forehead over and over. He held me for long moments, breathing raggedly into my hair. 

"I'm not the man I was." I told John sadly. "I'm not the man you loved."

"Stop it!" John said, his voice fierce. "Just stop! Sherlock, you've been through hell, of course it's affected you. But I'm not going anywhere! I've waited so long… we are together now! If there are problems, we need to deal with them together. I cannot lose you again! Look at me."

Reluctantly, I raised my eyes to his. I saw immediately that he meant it, that he loved me - deeply and passionately... he loved me now, but I would disappoint him again and again. How could I bear to watch his love fade? "You don't know what you're getting into." I told him.

"Yes, I do." John insisted. "I'm a doctor - I'm YOUR doctor. I know something about depression and trauma and SSRIs. And I can learn more. This isn't negotiable, Sherlock."

"OK." I said softly, wanting to believe him, believe that everything would work out. 

"I mean it."

"I know you do. I… I mean it too." I really tried to mean it.

"Good." John stroked his hand down my side, ribs to flank. I shivered, it felt so good. "Delayed orgasm doesn't necessarily mean you can't orgasm." John said, continuing to caress me. "It doesn't matter to me if it takes longer. And, no pressure! It doesn't have to happen. But I can still make you feel good."

"John…"

"And I want you to make me feel good too. OK?"

That sounded more appealing. Much more appealing at this point. "OK." I agreed. 

"Good. Get on top again.”

I climbed onto him, lining our cock up. “John... I want you to fuck me." I told him. “I need to feel you.” I needed the closeness, needed to be joined to him completely.

John brushed my too-short fringe back from my face. "I think we have to set that aside for now. Until we're certain you're completely healed physically."

He meant the tearing. I didn't like to remember how it had happened, had attempted over and over to delete the memories. But when I slept, I returned to the prison…

“I’m fine.” I insisted. Anxiety rose up like a wave, blanketing me with its chill. “I feel fine.”

“Good.” John said, caressing my shoulders. His hands felt phenomenal. I’d forgotten how perfectly amazing it felt when John touched me like this. “But we need to wait until after you‘ve have a proper exam.”

“John... I need... I need you inside me...” I felt helpless.

John stroked my thighs, worry on his expressive face. Worry that I had put there. “Sherlock...” He began.

“Never mind.” I said quickly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s NOT fine.” John insisted. I’d upset him. How could I fix this? “I want to feel that close to you too.”

“John... it’s ok...” I was miserable. John was angry with me, disappointed with me.

“You should fuck ME.” John said. “Sherlock.” 

"But you don't like... "

"Hush." John kissed my fingertips, sucking on them lightly. I felt it in my bollocks, my half-soft penis twitching with interest. "We only tried it twice. I need to be that close to you now too."

"But… but I want YOU to fuck me." I said wretchedly. “I need to remember how YOU feel.”

John pulled me down onto his chest and stroked my back – I felt tense immediately, knowing what he was feeling there. I steeled myself for his reaction, his shock and anger. But it didn’t come. “Hush, love.” He murmured into my hair. “You’re here. That’s... that’s everything, Sherlock. Be here with me.”

Slowly I relaxed against him. His hands wandered down to my arse and stroked. “You’re so beautiful.” John whispered. “And I want you so much.” His fingers feathered over my hole.

My breath hitched - if it was with arousal or tears I couldn't say. "I love you, John."

"I love you too." John said. He pulled my face to his and kissed me. “I love kissing you.” John wasn’t angry with me after all. I began to let go of my frustration (and my fear), focusing instead on his mouth against mine, his lips and tongue... the way his capable hands caressed my skin... the heat of his genitals pressed against my belly. My anxiety had made me soft, but I felt desire reawakening in my blood. I rubbed against him and John moaned into my mouth – a sound both needy and wanton and suddenly I was full hard again. John’s hand snaked between our bodies and wrapped around our erections. He kissed me wetly and thrust up into his fist, dragging his cock against mine, groaning. I shuddered – with lust this time – and matched his rhythm. It felt divine. John’s hand disappeared, then grasped us again, wet with saliva and we slid against each other more easily. I was panting and rutting, my own hand wrapping around John’s smaller one, gripping us more tightly. John’s other hand found my arse again and he touched my entrance, the bud at the very centre of me, and stroked. I gasped out loud and pushed back onto his fingers with every thrust of my hips. I was suspended between John’s clever hands, his mouth on my neck. My world contracted to this, three points of contact, John’s hands and his amazing, talented mouth. He sucked and bit and worried marks into the delicate skin at my throat. I loved it. I loved that he was claiming me, marking me as his own. I found his nipple and pinched him hard as he pounded up into our fists, our foreskins rucking back and forth. John gasped, his entire body stretching out, and wailed. His cock twitched and his climax spilled between us. He juddered beneath me, spurting again and again, his abdomen tensing and twisting. Through it, he never let go of my cock, never took his fingers from my arse. His pearly essence lubricated me and as his prick twitched the last drops and began to soften, he let it go his and took my cock in a vice like grip. I was panting hard as I fucked his fist. John sucked my earlobe. “Yeah, back up onto my fingers.” He crooned in my ear. “Just like that. Fuck me harder, fuck my fist, love. Fuck yourself on my hand. You feel so good.” He twisted his finger into my prostate and stars sparked in my vision. Another thrust, and another, and then my cock throbbed and erupted, twisting my insides and curling my toes. Muffling a shout against his shoulder, I came so hard I shot on John’s cheek and my chin. My bollocks turned themselves inside out, my body trembled with absolute bloody bliss. My vision failed, my brain went offline and there was only the electricity jolting through me…

John was twitching with aftershocks. I lay on top of him, panting, our sweat and semen wet between us. I felt sticky and damp but lacked the energy, not to mention the will, to move. 

"That was amazing." John murmured into my hair. "You're amazing!"

I forced myself up onto one elbow and slid to the side awkwardly, flopping next to him. His arm tightened around me. "I think I passed out." I said. 

John laughed. There was semen on his chest. I leaned over and licked it, savouring the bleachy bitterness of it. I didn’t know if it was his or mine or both, but I loved the thought of our DNA comingled. I swallowed and licked his chest again, tasting the salt of sweat along with the pearly seed. 

Inspired, I levered myself up and licked the ejaculate from his cheek then kissed him, semen on my tongue. John grunted with interest and returned the kiss, tasting himself in my mouth and loving it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I was distracted by Black Panther... but that's another story (literally - http://archiveofourown.org/works/13714497 ). I'm determined to finish this behemoth before I start my Johnlock pro bike racing AU – and as road racing season has begun in earnest, that is pulling at me. (Did anyone catch Strada Bianchi? Fantastic race! I love the white road classics.) But there's at least two more chapters of Uncertainty, I think, to get it where it's supposed to go. 
> 
> Comments are welcome! A little feedback keeps me from feeling like I'm just throwing words into a void. 
> 
> Another chapter 'soon.'


	17. Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally confronts Moran. But despite being reunited with Sherlock, John is worried about him.

JOHN

 

“John… John…” I roused slowly, finding it difficult to clear the sleep from my head. “John?”

“I’m awake.” I said, sitting up. My heart flooded with joy – I was lying next to my Sherlock! He was home! I ran my fingers through his hair and kissed his jaw.

“What time is it?” Sherlock demanded.

“I love you too.” I said. Smiling I leaned off the bed and fished my mobile out of my dressing gown. “It’s just 21:30.” I told him.

Sherlock sighed. “I should go.” He said.

“Go? You just got here. Sherlock…”

“It’s too suspicious, John, you being up here this long.” He slid off the bed, wary of what sort of silhouette he might cast on the shade. “We can’t afford to arouse their suspicions now!”

He was panting shallowly and I could see that he’d begun to sweat. 

“OK, calm down.” I said, patting his shoulder. “I can close the curtains downstairs now. We can sleep in our own bed tonight.” The thought was insanely comforting.

“It would put you in too much danger... I’ve already exposed you too much!”

He sounded almost frantic. “Ok.” I said softly. “Ok… slow down.” I pulled him into my arms. “When… when are we dealing with Sebastian Moran?” 

“Tomorrow.” Sherlock’s hands shook as he held me.

“Good!” I kissed his cheek, pressing my face into his cropped hair. “Where would you go tonight?”

“Mycroft’s... I guess.” I could feel his heart pounding. 

“My love.” I kissed his forehead. “My Sherlock. Wouldn’t it be safer for both of us if you stayed here tonight? You said they’re watching, they could see you leaving... if they did, I might never see you again. I couldn’t bear that. Please, love, stay.”

“John...!” Sherlock groaned. 

“I‘ll put on a performance for whoever’s watching first.” I told him persuasively. “Take a couple of your books downstairs – as if I’d been looking for them, doing research up here. Make myself tea. Watch TV for a half hour. Then close the curtains and turn on the lights in the loo and the bedroom. When I turn them off, you can come down. We can curl up in bed together – our bed. They won’t suspect anything.” I could see Sherlock wavering. “We’ll both be safer.” I kissed him, felt him melt into me. “What do you say?”

“Yes.” He said softly, his heart beating too quickly against my chest.

It was WONDERFUL! I held him in my arms all night long. I ran my fingers through his short hair and rubbed his back until he fell asleep, then I watched him breathe for a long time before I fell asleep myself. I hoped – I prayed! – that we would be sleeping together from now on. No more separations short or long.

I roused in the early hours to find Sherlock dressing.

“Where are you going?” I asked, sleepily.

Sherlock sat on the bed and kissed me briefly. “Have to get everything ready for Moran.” He said.

I sat up. “OK. What’s the plan?” I was going to be part of this, come hell or high water.

“I need you to leave the flat with Mrs. Hudson at noon – it’s important that you get Mrs. Hudson out.” 

“OK. Mrs. Hudson. Noon. Where do I take her? Won’t we be watched?”

“You’ll be watched by Moran or his people, of course. Take her to brunch at that place she likes on Marlebone road. In the café, make sure you sit with your back to the window. The deeper in the better. Order, then go to the gents, one of Mycroft’s men will be waiting for you. Swap coats with him – he’ll be roughly your height and build and they’ll style his hair like yours. He’ll take your place with Mrs. Hudson – protect her if need be.” 

“OK.” I didn’t like the way Sherlock was trembling all of a sudden, the shallowness of every rapid breath.

“Go out through the kitchen into the alley. A car will be waiting. It will bring you to me.” 

“OK. What then?” I asked, fingers in his hair, caressing, petting, trying to calm him.

“Then we go take down Moran.”

“Good!”

“I HAVE to go John. I have to go now. You must be safe here until noon!” 

“All right. It’s all right.” I said soothingly. He moved restlessly to the door. I got up and donned my dressing gown and followed him to the stairwell. “Kiss me.” I said. 

That stopped his edgy fidgeting. He turned into me, melting helplessly in my arms. I kissed him soundly – in this, at least, he was like the Sherlock I knew. The full lips, the taste of him, the sweep of his tongue – all that was unchanged. I savoured it for long moments, putting all my love and care for him into my kisses. 

But eventually I had to let him go. I watched him down the stairs.

Sherlock wasn’t ok. He wasn’t ok and I was terribly worried about him.

His delicate state during our lovemaking – going from desperately aroused to desperately disconsolate and back several times (not to mention willingly admitting to depression and suicidal thoughts) – had alarmed me more than I could say. It rocked me to my core. Sherlock was a force of nature! A tsunami of confident, abrasive, magnificent genius in a swirling Belstaff coat. Not the frail, broken man in my arms.

I had been so relieved to see him, so happy when he flung open Mrs. Hudson’s front door. Holding him had been heaven. Kissing him… nothing compared to kissing Sherlock! But he felt different in my arms, insubstantial somehow. The look on his face when I asked if he was healthy… it was plain he was anxious about what I might see when I looked at him. Not simply anxious, terrified. And when I pulled him back into my arms, he was trembling. 

More worrisome, Sherlock hadn’t seemed to deduce my concern. (I tried to hide it, but expected Sherlock to see right through me as he always had.) He was blind to it, simply grateful that I still wanted him. 

(OF COURSE I still wanted him! I would never not want Sherlock.)

The shadows of the drugs and, more alarming still, death was heavy upon him. I could see them swirling around, distracting him, preying on his mind... 

Our lovemaking had been fraught. When I touched him, he would twitch away, involuntarily. I don’t think he even realised he was doing it. Laying half on top of him had provoked the beginnings of a panic attack. I hardly knew what to do – it was obvious that any sort of rejection would have devastated him. 

I had urged Sherlock to lay on top of me instead. I finally got a good look at him then. Superficially he was still my Sherlock, long and pale and elegant, his big hands moving expressively. But he was very, very thin – he’d lost at least a stone of muscle since I’d last seen him naked (and he’d been too skinny then). His muscles had atrophied whilst he was held captive, whilst he lay in hospital… His knees and elbows were overlarge knobs in the centre of his spindly limbs, his hands shook and his gums were receding, his skin was dry and his colour tinged with gray. 

As a doctor, I was concerned. As his lover, I was beside myself.

Putting Sherlock on top, allowing him the freedom to direct the proceedings – and to end them if he so desired – had succeeded in calming his panic. It was clear that I couldn’t do any of the things we were used to doing – I couldn’t take charge, bull him to the bed, hold him down, restrain him, I couldn’t lift his legs and fuck him, I couldn’t push him to his knees and shove my cock in his mouth. I couldn’t hold him in my arms whispering endearments and make love to him. I couldn’t top him at all, not right now. Our established dynamic, where Sherlock surrendered to my will with giddy delight, would only trigger his trauma now.

Selfishly, I was upset. I was angry! I wanted to kill the people who had done this to him! Who had turned my brilliant Sherlock into this fragile, cringing creature. (Remembering that I HAD killed them did nothing to assuage my fury.) Worse (so much worse) I felt childishly resentful that I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted. We’d been separated for so long! I had dreamed of this reunion! Fantasised about it endlessly! It was not supposed to be this way! There was a tantrum swelling in my chest, I wanted to stamp my foot and shake my fist and scream because THIS. WAS. NOT. FAIR! 

But almost before the thought was fully formed in my head, Sherlock, my beautiful Sherlock, was blaming himself. He was apologising before he could catch his breath. He was so insecure! So sad. Sherlock expected my rejection. His misery palpable. It melted my heart. My resentment evaporated in an instant. 

There was nothing I wouldn’t do for him!

Sherlock needed to rediscover his power. I needed to give him the control he had been robbed of in prison.

His assault on my mouth was more frantic than rough. Sherlock’s prick isn’t as large as mine, nor as wide – it had never been difficult to take him. I’d learned to like sucking his cock – and to love giving him that pleasure – in the few idyllic months we were lovers before Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Barts. I had missed him atrociously. I had craved his touch, dreamed of him for over two years. Having him in my mouth again was nothing but joy. 

I’d known he was taking antidepressants – Mycroft had given me Sherlock’s medical records – but I hadn’t known he’d had suicidal thoughts! That almost gave ME a panic attack. (I couldn’t lose him! I’d waited for him to come home for so long, I could not lose him again!) And the way he had fretted about the long-eradicated STD, cringing from my touch as I reassured him… I would do anything for him.

I would have bottomed for him – I wanted to. But he was so upset that I couldn’t fuck him. (I wouldn’t until I was certain I wouldn’t injure him.) Maybe he didn’t just want to be close, to be joined together, maybe he needed me to take him that way, erase with my body, with my cum, what had been done to him. And I had failed. In my concern for his body I hadn’t considered his mind.

I was desperate to calm him, to show him how much I loved him. How much I wanted him! I didn’t expect sex at that point, I just wanted to reassure him somehow. But he had become aroused again and I had taken him in hand – taken us both in hand – and made love to him best I knew how. 

I came – I hadn’t been sure I’d be able to, but I had. And then, miracle, I felt Sherlock’s ecstasy as it came upon him and swept him away. The look on his beautiful face as the pleasure overtook him… it was wonderful! 

Afterwards, he was more confident, more comfortable. It was almost like it had been before he left, kissing lazily through the aftershocks. Holding each other. Feeling him shudder gently into sleep. 

Only then did I look at the scars on his back – the ones I had felt as I stroked him. I’d seen the surgical scars on his abdomen already – they were small and tidy, purposeful scars just beginning to fade. There was the jagged scar on his hip that I’d seen before, in the Japanese hotel room, and the slight ridge hidden by his hair that was what was left of the nasty knife wound on the side of his head. 

His back was something else entirely. 

I knew he’d been beaten. I knew he’d been tortured in myriad ways – whipping, water-boarding, pummeling with fists and bars of soap in socks, burning him with cigarettes, withholding the drugs to which they’d addicted him, breaking his fingers and rupturing his spleen. I knew he’d been violated over and over, infected with gonorrhea and body lice. I’d seen him in the prison, kneeling filthy and shirtless on the block awaiting his execution. 

Sherlock’s medical records detailed the treatment of his many wounds in clinically antiseptic language. I had reviewed them carefully, making sure I was satisfied with every step. Making certain Sherlock was receiving the best care possible. 

None of that prepared me for the sight. The long alabaster expanse was blighted with crisscrossing pinks and oddly shiny patches. There were puckers and pockmarks and many, many raised furrows. Running my fingers over Sherlock’s back was like reading a horror novel in brail. It was a topographical map of pain, the mortified flesh communicating more than Sherlock’s medical records ever could. 

I wept. I had not protected him. He had been caught in the maw of a nightmare and had been masticated without mercy. We had pulled him out, Mycroft and I, but not before he’d been terribly damaged. 

I prayed he was not beyond repair. 

 

\--

 

Sherlock was in the black saloon car that waited for me behind the restaurant. Relieved to see him safe, I pulled him gently into my arms (ignoring the way he flinched) and kissed him. 

“I missed you.” I told him, caressing his cheek. “After you left, the flat was so empty.”

He smiled a bit at that, but I could see he was preoccupied, shadows pooling in and under his eyes. I leaned back, holding him more loosely. “What are you wearing?” I asked, staring at the hat pulled low on his brow. 

“A disguise.” He said frowning epically. 

“Well… it, erm, suits you…” 

“Shut up, John. You know I hate it.” 

I swallowed my laughter. (I was wearing a gray hoodie after all, given me by the agent in the loo. He’d urged me to cover my hair.) “What’s next then? Where are we going?” 

“We’re setting a trap for Moran.” Sherlock told me. “We’re going to draw him out and capture him. You brought your gun?” 

“Of course.”

“Good.” 

It was a short trip. The car stopped in an alley that I recognised – it was only a few blocks away from Baker Street, less than half a kilometer from 221. Sherlock opened the alley door with a key and led me in. “Mycroft has had every building with a sightline to our flat under surveillance.” Sherlock told me as we waited for the antiquated lift. “Mary Morstan has been spotted entering this building.”

“Mary? So she IS working with Moran.” 

Sherlock shot me a look communicating his disappointment that I had not already been certain of that obvious fact – a look that was SO perfectly Sherlockian I could have hugged him. How had I lived without him for so long? 

“Right.” I said, clearing my throat. “How do you know which flat?” 

“Sightlines. Taking Moran’s preferences from previous hits into account, Mycroft’s people calculated the best vantage point from this building. It’s flat 402.” 

“Not that I question Mycroft’s maths.” I said doubtfully. “But are you sure?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched with – amusement? Approval? Probably both. He had always enjoyed my contentious relationship with Mycroft. “402’s tenant hasn’t been seen in weeks.”

I nodded grimly and opened the lift gate and then the door. We emerged into the fourth floor hallway. 

“Moran’s in there now?” I whispered, pulling my gun. 

“Unknown. But there have been three ‘sightings’ of me in Camden Market this morning. Moran should feel confident that with even a cursory disguise he would go unrecognised by CCTV in the crowds there.” 

“You lured him out.” 

“I tried.”

I glanced at Sherlock. “What’s the plan? We knock on the door and see who answers?”

“I have a key.” He said holding it up. “We’ll open the door very carefully.”

“I’LL open the door.” I told him, taking the key. “You will wait in the stairwell – over there – until I’m certain he’s not in there.”

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue, but after one look at my face he acquiesced and retreated. 

I made my way silently down the hall to 402, cocking my gun. I pressed myself against the wall next to the door and slowly inserted the key into the lock. It turned with an audible ‘snick’ and I winced. I waited but heard nothing – and no one shot through the door – so I carefully turned the nob and pushed the door open. It creaked inward half a meter, spilling midday sunlight into the hall. Again, I waited, tense and ready next to the door. Silence. I flashed my gun, a quick wave across the opening – if Moran were pointing a weapon at the open door, more than likely he’d take a shot at the movement.

Nothing. Either he had nerves of steel or he wasn’t in there. 

It was time. I swung around into the doorway, kicking the door all the way open (to be certain no one lurked behind it), my gun raised. I stood in a small front hall opening into a sunwashed lounge. Dust motes danced in the bright air. If a gun was pointed at me, I couldn’t see it. I cleared the front hall in two steps and again flashed my gun – if he was around the corner, I hoped it would draw his fire. It didn’t. I swung myself around the corner, gun first and found myself in the lounge facing an open kitchen with an island separating the rooms. I carefully surveyed the room. The lounge had been divided into a study area and a sitting room with an enormous (and singularly hideous) black leather couch. A large black desk cluttered with mail, magazines, charging cords and other ephemera dominated the side of the room behind it. A coffee table had been shoved against the couch, the detritus on it spilling onto the floor. A low console holding an overly large television and set of speakers sat against the near wall, positioned so that one could lie on the couch and watch. I silently walked backwards, checking that no one was hiding behind the couch, under the desk or by the single upholstered chair. It was deserted but for the stale smell of cigarettes. 

An area by the center front window had been cleared, chair and occasional table pushed aside, the desk chair taking their place. An ashtray rested on the windowsill.

I strode to the kitchen and pointed my gun at the floor behind the kitchen island. Empty. Noting the closed door adjacent, I walked past it down a narrow hall to the bedroom. I made certain no one was behind the bed or in the closet. I noticed the tidy military rucksack on the floor next to a rifle case (and the military corners on the made bed) and how they contrasted with the clutter on top of the highboy.

I returned to the closed door – the loo, it had to be. I stood aside and twisted the nob, flinging the door inward, as I had at the front door. I flashed my gun then swung into the room – I almost pulled the trigger! A figure lurked behind the closed shower curtain. But at the last millisecond I recognised it was unmoving. And I recognised the odour. I pulled back the curtain, still pointing the gun directly at what I discovered to be a shovel and empty quicklime bags sitting on top of a corpse packed in the stuff. The flat’s unfortunate tenant. 

There was no doubt now that Moran was holed up here. 

I gave the tiny flat another quick once over, and only then put the safety back on my gun. I retrieved Sherlock from the stairwell and brought him into the flat, locking the door after us. “What now?” I asked. “We wait for him to come back?”

“Yes. We need to find a hiding place in here. We need to catch him in the act.”

“Why? Why can’t Mycroft’s people – or the police for that matter – just grab him when he comes back?” 

“Too obvious. Moran’s a professional. And very paranoid. Mary only came here in disguise and only after she’d gone to some lengths to throw off any tails – Mycroft’s CCTV coverage is better than she anticipated. And… “ Sherlock touched my arm, anxiety creeping across his face. “I want to make sure it’s him. I KNOW it’s him, but I want to see him take the shot, try and kill me. I need to be certain that someone else isn’t out there pointing a gun at you.”

“OK.” I said simply. 

“And Mycroft’s men will follow him into the building. Out of sight, of course. Once he pulls the trigger, we’ll have backup.”

“OK, but you’re here. How will he shoot at you?” I paused. “I don’t want him shooting at you.”

“Take a look.” Sherlock pulled a spyglass from the pocket of his beige trench coat. He stepped to the cleared area in front of the windows and extended the spyglass. He adjusted the focus, scanning back and forth. “There!” He said, gesturing at me to join him.

He handed me the spyglass and pointed. I followed his direction and after a moment, found myself looking down on the front windows of our flat. The curtains were drawn as I had left them. “It’s our flat. But it’s just the curtains…”

“Keep watching.” Sherlock said checking his watch. The left window.”

I suppressed a sigh and watched the curtains covering the left window through the spyglass. A long twenty seconds later, the curtain twitched! A large hand pushed it back and Sherlock’s face appeared! He looked down at the street then turned his head, peering in both directions. Then he disappeared behind the curtain.

“Who is that?!” I exclaimed (keeping my voice down, of course). “He looks just like you!”

Sherlock smiled. “It’s an automaton.” He told me. “With waxwork head and hands. I had a cast made whilst I was in rehab. Mycroft commissioned an artist from Toussads make it. It’s set to look out the window every fifteen minutes.”

“It’s completely realistic.” I said. 

“It has to be. Come on, where can we hide?”

I surveyed the room. “Behind the couch, under the desk.” I told him. “Try it, I’ll see if you’re visible.”

Sherlock did as I bid, disappearing under the cluttered black desk. 

“That’s good.” I said. “I can’t see you at all. Is there room for two?”

“Yes, but it’s cozy.”

I grinned. “Good.” I climbed under the desk and found him with his knees draw up to his chest, taking less room than a grown man should. I settled myself beside him. “Come here.” I said putting my arms around him. “I love you.”

“Do you?” Sherlock asked softly, leaning his head against my shoulder.

“Of course, I do. You know I do.” I held him, my fingers in his hair, rubbing gentle circles. “Why do you doubt me?”

“I don’t! It’s not you, John…”

“What is it, then?”

“I… I’m not the man I was…”

I began to protest, but Sherlock cut me off. 

“You know I’m not.”

“You’ve been through a lot. But you’re still YOU. You’ve been hurt. Traumatised. But I still see YOU, Sherlock.

“Do you? I know last night wasn’t what you wanted…”

“It was. I wanted you to stay. I wanted to hold you while we slept. I wanted to wake up next to you. I want that every night.”

“I mean the sex. It wasn’t what you wanted.”

“Sherlock, I wanted you desperately. Surely that was obvious.”

“But it wasn’t the same. It’s different than it was before.”

“But it was still you and me. That’s all I care about.”

“I know I… I don’t mean to flinch when you touch me. It isn’t you.”

“You’ll notice it hasn’t stopped me.” I said, kissing his temple. 

“But it does. It did. Last night… it wasn’t…” He stopped. I felt the tension in his shoulders.

“Did you enjoy it?” I asked.

“Yes. Of course. But… I miss how it was. I know you do too.” I almost denied it. But he knew and denying it wouldn’t make him feel any better about it.

“You’re home.” I told him. “You’re home and we’re together. Everything else… we have time to make it everything we want it to be. We have all the time in the world. OK?”

“It’s not too much? Too… burdensome?”

“You are not a burden, Sherlock! You’re my best friend – you’re my partner. I love you! I’m in love with you! Stop being an idiot about it and kiss me.”

“Ok, John.” He turned his face to mine and I found his lips in the dark. He already had the desk at his back, I pressed him gently against it as we kissed and he allowed it.

“This hasn’t changed.” I told him, lipping his jaw. “You’ve always been the most amazing kisser.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, astonishment in his voice.

“Best I ever had.”

“Better than ... than all the women you’ve kissed – all three continents?”

“By far.”

“You aren’t… just saying that….?”

“I wouldn’t.” I said. “You know I wouldn’t.” I kissed him again to shut him up, to quell all his doubts. Kissed him until he was hard in his trousers and grasping at my arms to hold him more tightly. I cupped the swell, it was hot against my palm and so, so familiar. He moaned into our kiss, a sound of pure desire, and I felt my own cock rising in response. Pressing him against the wood behind him, touching him this way, kissing him… THIS was more like how we’d been before. He was enjoying it too – no trembling, no panic… maybe I simply had to approach him more carefully…

I felt a vibration and leaned back. “My phone.” Sherlock said. I gave him some room to fish it from his pocket. “Moran has just entered the building.” He said, showing me the text.

“Good. Let’s get this over with.” I said. I kissed him once more then disengaged. I adjusted myself for comfort – Sherlock’s effect on my cock had not changed – and turned to face the entrance of the footwell under the desk. I pulled my gun but left the safety on. “Sherlock, promise me that you’ll stay under here until I disarm him.”

“But…”

“Please, Sherlock. I can handle Moran. I couldn’t handle it if he hurt you.” When he didn’t respond I appealed to him again. “Please.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

“I mean it.” I told him. 

“I said fine!”

I heard the key in the door and shushed him. He’d drawn his knees back up to his chest and was hugging them tightly, his face pale in the dimness under the desk. I put a reassuring hand on his arm and listened to the door open. Footsteps entered the lounge and stopped. Did he sense our presence? I’d been careful not to touch anything and Sherlock hadn’t either. Nothing should be out of place. Was there an odour? A disturbance in the force?

Then I heard the match flare and smelled the acrid cigarette smoke. I made sure my sigh of relief was silent.

The footsteps walked to the window and stopped again. I imagined him staring at our distant windows, smoking contemplatively. Abruptly, he moved away from us, into the kitchen – I heard the tap of his shoes on the tile, heard him run the water. He opened the door to the loo (I was briefly relieved that I’d remembered to shut the door after discovering the corpse in the bathtub) and I could hear him empty his bladder. He flushed and ran the water again. Then he moved farther into the flat. I could hear him faintly in the bedroom, several ‘snicks’ and then a metallic sound. His rifle. He was taking it from its case, checking the scope, screwing on a silencer. He returned to the lounge, his steps heavier. He opened the window and the desk chair creaked as he sat in it. I listened to him setting up his rifle in the window. Then nothing, no sound at all. I imagined him sitting poised behind his rifle, the windows of 221b in his sights. The automoton would do its thing, move the curtain and expose its head soon enough.

“You gonna be brown bread, matie.” Moran mumbled. “Got me lady pointed right at yer lump o lead.”

I’d forgotten Seb Moran’s compulsive use of rhyming slang. But if he had his gun pointed at the waxwork Sherlock’s head, this was almost over. I strained to hear what he was doing – then I heard it! The wooshing ‘ffft’ of a silenced rifle shot.

“Got you! Got you, you poncey strawberry!” Moran exulted. “Right between the minces!”

I’d eased out from under the desk and was crouching behind the couch. I sprang up, and barreled into Moran, tackling him to the floor. He swung the rifle, trying to bring the butt down on my head – but it was an awkward angle, with me half on top of him. I parried the blow with my forearm, feeling the crack in my bones as the gun connected. I got myself upright, straddling him, my handgun pointed at his face, safety off, finger on the trigger. Moran froze.

“Drop the rifle!” I commanded. “Now!”

He let it go and it clattered noisily on the floor. But Moran wasn’t cowed. He cackled at me, cigarette still between his lips. “John Watson. It’s been donkeys, mate. But you’re a garden gate. Yer man Sherlock is brown bread now.”

I grinned ferally. “You’ve got it Pete Tong.” I said, the rhyming slang for ‘wrong.’ “Seb, mate, that wasn’t Sherlock in the Tommy Trinder.” 

Moran’s smile faded. “It was his Ricky.” He protested. 

“It was Ricki Lake.” I crowed. “Fake as the day is long.”

Moran surged up with a shout, knocking my gun aside. It went off, the bullet taking a chunk of his ear before lodging in the floor. Instinctively, he jerked away from the noise, instead of throwing me off, I managed to get a knee in his chest. I hit him with my gun, a sharp blow to the side of his head, and he dropped senseless to the floor.

“John!” Sherlock cried popping up behind the couch. “I heard a shot, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I growled. “Where’s that backup?!” As if on cue, the front door burst open and gun-wielding men and women in bullet-proof vests flooded the room. I sat back, leaning against the side of the couch, and let Sherlock issue commands. Moran was cuffed where he lay and the rifle carefully laid in an evidence bag. 

When he was finished detailing instructions to the forensics team, Sherlock took one look at how I favoured the arm Moran’s rifle butt had impacted and insisted we go to A&E. I didn’t protest – it hurt quite a lot and was beginning to swell. X-rays showed that it was not broken but it had continued to swell and was beginning to bruise rather spectacularly. We left with an ice pack and paracetamol.

It was late afternoon by then. The adrenaline had long dissipated and the ache in my arm was unpleasant, but I still felt energised and happy every time I looked at Sherlock. 

“I’ll get a cab.” He told me.

“Let’s walk a bit.” I said. “It’s lovely out. If you’re up to it?”

Sherlock smiled and I took his hand as we walked.

“You’re hungry.” He observed.

“I am. And you should be too – have you eaten today?”

We got fish and chips to go and ate on a bench in a little park. I fed him salty chips every time he seemed to lose interest in his food. 

“Stop!” He laughed, trying to dodge.

“I’ll stop when you gain a little weight back.”

He ate the chip, smiling. “You always want to take care of me.”

“Because you need taking care of.” I kissed him, tasting fried potato.

“I do.” He conceded. But he looked uncomfortable.

I caressed his cheek and kissed him again. “We take care of each other.” I told him.

“We do.” Sherlock said. His breathing was shallow and his heart beat too rapidly, but his hands were steady in mine.

We finished the chips and walked towards home.

“Cameron Magnusen was deported.” Sherlock told me. “Extradited is probably a more apt term, though it’s unofficial. Mycroft gave him to the Russians. Seems he’d defrauded a couple oligarchs. We don’t have to worry about him coming after you because I’m alive or coming after me because I killed his brother in New York.” He touched the side of his head, his long fingers briefly worrying the scar under his hair.

“Good.” I said.

“And Mary Morstan was seen with Moran in Camden Yard this morning. Mycroft had his team pick her up as soon as we had Moran in custody.”

“So… you’re home now?” I asked. “For good? Moriarty’s syndicate, – network, whatever – is gone. No more hiding, no more separations?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock told me. “No more separation. I promise.”

I stopped walking. “Come here.” I said and kissed him right there in the street. “I’m not going to be able to stop smiling for days.” I told him. “Maybe weeks.” I kissed him again. He smiled back, happiness lighting his eyes, turning them a silvery blue in the sunlight. But he still had purple shadows beneath them and his steps were beginning to flag. “We should get a cab.”

“We’re almost home.” Sherlock demurred. “And it IS beautiful out.”

“Mm. Ok.” I said. I slowed our pace, enjoying the day and being with him. I took his arm and he leaned on me as we made our way through Regent’s Park. We arrived back to Baker Street around 17:30. I felt relaxed and happy in a way I hadn’t felt for… years. As I unlocked our front door, Sherlock put his arms around my waist and nuzzled my neck. “That tickles.” I told him, giddy laughter bubbling between us. I pulled him inside, shut the door and pinned him against it, stretching up to kiss him. For once he didn’t flinch, his hands wrapping around my back, his lush mouth pressing against mine. The swipe of his tongue went straight to my groin. I gripped his arse, holding him close, rubbing us together. He was hard almost immediately, groaning in my mouth.

“John!”

“Upstairs.” I said. “Right now.” I grasped his hand and we ran up the stairs together laughing. We made it almost to the top before he tugged me to a stop. I turned back to him, he stood on the stair below me, smiling – glowing. I kissed him thoroughly, not having to stretch up for once. Sherlock had remembered how much I liked it this way. “I love you.” I murmured, sucking on his lip.

“I love you too, John.” I kissed him again then nibbled his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble under my teeth. Strange how natural it felt, despite being nothing like kissing a woman. Women were soft… Sherlock… Sherlock was exciting. Thrilling. Kissing Sherlock was athletic. Competitive. We fed off each other’s energy, passion growing and grabbing, boiling in my blood. And his. He wrapped a leg around me and cupped my erection through my jeans.

I thrust into his hand and almost overbalanced us both. “Whoa!” I clung to the rail. “Bed! Before we fall down the stairs.” Sherlock bit my lip once more then released me, but kept his hand wrapped around me, on the front of my trousers as we ran up the last few stairs and burst, panting, into the lounge.

Mrs. Hudson stood in the center of the room, her eyes round and scared. Mary stood next to her. She was shorter than Mrs. Hudson but held her arm in a crushing grip. In Mary’s other hand she held a gun pointed at Hudders’ ribcage, angled so that if she fired it would pierce Mrs. Hudson’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Revised the previous chapter slightly. FYI. 
> 
> Comments are welcome. So are suggestions and constructive criticism. But come on, keep it polite. If you don’t like this fic, you can say so nicely. Or you can find another you DO like – there is no shortage (much to Martin Freeman’ Chagrin).
> 
> More to come!


	18. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees through everyone and everything... except perhaps himself.

SHERLOCK 

 

I think of all the time that’s passed. 

882 days since I jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. 882 days since I broke John’s heart, left him alone, devastated, and began my quest to eradicate Moriarty’s organisation from the face of the earth.

882 days.

I want to scream at the enormity of it. Not just the time lost, but the way we’ve both changed.

John waited for me. HE WAITED FOR ME! I cannot fathom how he waited 882 days – years of his life – for ME. A skinny, obstinate, thoughtlessly cruel person with the opposite anatomy than what he prefers…

I love him. I love John with my entire being. I am his, unquestionably. And I will continue to love him whether he’s with me or not, whether we’re just friends or more than friends… or less… My love for John is a fixed point in the universe, unchangeable. Monolithic. It doesn’t require him to return the sentiment. I never expected that he could, let alone would. I tried to be content with the time and attention he gave so freely. I tried not to be greedy.

I never expected my life to contain so much joy. When John looks at me, his love apparent on his mobile face, it’s almost intolerable, the amount of joy I am utterly filled with. It paralyses me, there is so much happiness. I cannot think or move. I would be turned to stone, except John, somehow – miraculous John! – unfreezes me with his touch. His hand on my waist or my cheek or just the lightest brush of our fingers and I am myself again… myself and so much more! I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. But I am also SherlockandJohn. To my complete shock, I find myself valuing the latter more than the former.

But so much time apart… so many words not spoken… so many conversations unheard. Everything that John has experienced without me – I can deduce some of it from the fraying cuffs and unshined shoes, the deepening of the lines between his eyes and the silvering of his hair. But so much is simply lost to me. I mourn every hour, every second, without him. I begrudge every word spoken to other people, every bit of attention John expended elsewhere... every touch... 

Our life together feels distant. It’s a series of impressions: the pale flash of skin at his wrist as he hands me his cell phone... telling me he thought I was amazing and extraordinary that first time... how strange it felt to laugh WITH someone… untying him whilst he demanded I untie what’s-her-name first, the corpse of one of his captors nearby... the first sight of him in the swimming pool, thinking for one interminable second that HE was Moriarty... giggling together in Buckingham palace... his jealousy over Irene... the men he killed … sitting across from him in our chairs and realising that after two decades of riding any and every cock that took my fancy, I didn’t want anyone but him... my despair knowing he could never return my feelings… the surge of panic when I apologised for saying I had no friends and he turned and walked away from me... the look on his face when he caught me kissing Victor... hiking cliffside in a rainstorm, thinking what a relief it would be if I were swept over the edge… the abject terror I felt upon discovering I had confessed my feelings in a fevered haze... the first time he kissed me... the joy of waking up next to him... the way Baker Street was filled with light and life as it had never been before… the utter dread that Moriarty would take him from me... his voice on the phone, believing in me... his shaky touch on my wrist... seeing him decompensating after my ‘suicide’... 

I am not the same man I was 882 days ago. 

John knows it. It’s writ all over his handsome face – the worry and the fear. The pity. I cannot abide pity. I could ignore it from anyone but John. I would ignore it, delete it, throw fits at it – anything to erase it. Contempt is preferable to pity.

Yet I know I am pitiful. The siren song of heroin is loud in my ears. Being with John muffles it somewhat, but it’s there still, relentlessly calling me. I can refuse it. I can say ‘no.’ I can deny it over and over and over. But it NEVER stops. Eventually I will succumb. 

So what is the point of trying to hold out? If it will win anyway? Heroin can erase the memories of prison, the nightmares that terrorise me whenever I close my eyes. It will make me forget the look on John’s face when I cringe, involuntarily, from his touch. Heroin will give me peace. And happiness of a sort. 

But John waited. 

John waited 21,178.5 hours. 1,270,710 minutes. I could calculate the seconds, but the calculation would be obsolete before I finished the maths, simple as it is. What would be the point? I’m having trouble finding the point. I can’t deduce the point, the purpose, of sobriety – no, of existence. My existence is pointless. It would be so lovely to shoot my veins full of heroin and simply drift away into nonexistence. A permanent respite from the pain.

But John waited for me to come home. He must see the purpose, even if I can’t. He wouldn’t have waited, wouldn’t have put his life in stasis if there was no point. As often as I accuse him of it, John is not an idiot. Not about things like this. 

I trust John. I trust John completely. My time away robbed me of so much, but not of the certainty of my love and trust in John. Maybe if I’m very, very attentive I will be able to deduce the point of continuing on.

It’s just so hard to pay attention with the heroin singing to me so loudly.

\--

At my first sight of Mary, I know – I KNOW! – that she’s in love with John. I cannot describe the mixture of jealousy, loathing and pleasure that knowledge inspires in me. I feel simultaneously insecure and triumphant. I want to cling to John, to reassure myself that he is mine. To rub Mary’s nose in the fact that he is mine.

I don’t. Given the situation – losing Mrs. Hudson is unacceptable – our canoodling on the stairs was unfortunate enough. I must not be familiar with John, let alone affectionate. I must display my insecurity for her, let her see how pathetic and unworthy I am.

Because I AM both pathetic and unworthy.

But not stupid. I see how she grits her teeth, clenches her jaw. I see the slight tremor of her trigger finger. I hear Moriarty’s words in her mouth. 

There was a time when Mary was her own person. But that time is long past. Moriarty broke her. He took everything she had, systematically. One bit at a time, he eradicated her. Scorched earth – Moriarty left nothing behind. He reduced her to nothingness. 

Then Moriarty ‘rescued’ her – he built her a new personality, molded her into an extension of himself, someone who would follow his orders without question. Someone who would let him hit her, fuck her, cut off her fingers and then thank him for it. She would kill for him without hesitation. She HAS killed for him. 

Distantly I know I should feel sorry for her. John would. But she’s hurting Mrs. Hudson. I can see the tears on Mrs. Hudson’s face, the rigidity of her arms even as she tries to reassure me with her eyes. The way Mary’s shoving the gun barrel against her ribs will leave bruises.

And Mary tried to take my John. 

I don’t feel sorry for her. Not one bit.

\--

“Mary!” John exclaimed. “What are you doing?!”

“Stop clutching your pearls, John.” Mary said. “You aren’t a Victorian ingénue on a fainting couch.”

Mary was trying to insult John, belittle him, throw him off his game. She miscalculated. John’s face hardened and an air of readiness – of dangerous capability – descended over him. I could almost SEE his soldier’s brain assessing the angles and spaces between himself, Mary, the gun and Mrs. Hudson. John would strike given the smallest opportunity. 

“Are you OK?” I asked Mrs. Hudson.

She held my gaze with her teary eyes. “Yes.” She quavered and I remembered that though Mycroft had told her I was alive – indeed she had harboured my automaton – I hadn’t seen her, or she me, until now.

She looked well – more angry than fearful. Mrs. Hudson was made of strong stuff – she was ready to act when John or I struck. I took a step towards them. “The question stands, Ms. Morstan – what are you doing?”

“Don’t come any closer.” Mary warned, shoving the barrel of her gun against Mrs. Hudson’s already bruised ribs. “Or I WILL shoot her.”

“Stop that.” John commanded. “You don’t need to hurt her!”

“But I DO, John. I have to kill her. And you. And the copper. Sherlock knew the rules – either he dies or you do. All three of you. And he’s not dead.”

“Kill me instead.” I said quickly. 

“Sherlock…!” John started to protest.

“It’s what Jim really wanted.” I continued cutting him off with a look. “Jim never cared about John or Mrs. Hudson. He cared about me.”

“That’s true.” Mary said. “Jim couldn’t stop going on about you. It drove Seb mad.”

“But you… you didn’t mind at all.” 

Mary had the gall to look surprised, if only momentarily. “No. I didn’t mind. 

“Because John is your special project. Jim gave John to you.” I saw John’s startled glance in my peripheral vision but ignored it. 

“Yes.” She agreed. “John is mine.” Her eyes flicked over John. “If Jim hadn’t given you to me, John, I would have asked to have you. The swimming pool wasn’t the first time I saw you but watching at you through my rifle scope… you weren’t diminished by the explosive vest, you didn’t lose your dignity repeating Jim’s words – even the ridiculous nonsense words. You didn’t beg or cry or try to bargain for your life. You just got on with it. You were even willing to sacrifice yourself for HIM.” Mary nodded contemptuously at me. “I knew then that I liked you, that after Jim dispatched with Sherlock, I would enjoy helping you rebuild your life.”

John was baring his teeth in disgust.

“Jim groomed you for John.” I said before John could say anything.

“He did – he was brilliant at it. I’m perfect for you, John – Jim remade me into the perfect partner for you. When we kissed, I know you felt it too.”

They had kissed?! I felt ill. “Y-you didn’t say that you’d kissed her.” I said to John, working to keep my voice steady. “You didn’t tell me.” 

“I –“ John began uncertainly.

I cut him off. “Mary’s better suited than I could ever be.” I felt the heaviness of truth in those words. “I’ve only brought you trouble. Pain.”

Mary nodded, but her eyes were fixed on John, appealing to him, pleading with him. “I’m everything you’ve ever wanted, John. I know you find me attractive, I know I’m your ‘type.’ It’s not just physical, my personality complements yours – my interests and hobbies, my work, my taste in cinema and books and restaurants. I’m funny and smart and kind and little bit stubborn. I’m perfect for you!

“After he was dead,” She shot a loathing glance my way. “I was your salvation. You should have been an easy conquest. You should have fallen into my arms, grabbed onto me like your life depended on it – because it would have if your grief had been real.

“But you didn’t.” Mary said bitterly. “So, we knew Sherlock was alive. Sooner or later he would come back. Or you would lead us to him. All we had to do was wait.” 

“And then Seb would kill me and you’d get John after all.”

“Yes.” Mary agreed, her eyes blazing. “But Seb failed. Stupid old man with his stupid rhyming slang – that’s an affectation, you know. He came up in Wexford not Brixton.” She scoffed. “I came here to see your corpse, Sherlock Holmes. When I found that THING instead…”

“You knew you’d lost your chance at John.”

She scowled unhappily. “Yes.”

“And without John, what has been the point? What’s your purpose?” Her despair was as evident to me as my own.

“You should have killed yourself.” Mary cried, shoving the gun against Mrs. Hudson’s ribs with brutal force. “Two years ago! You should have killed yourself and you shouldn’t have killed Jim. Now you’re going to watch your friends die. And then I’m going to kill you.”

“I didn’t kill Jim.” I told her.

Mary looked incredulous. “I know you did. I saw his corpse! After you jumped, I saw him! You can’t deny it. I saw the blood and the gun. He didn’t get up. He didn’t move. He just laid there, bleeding. I almost emptied my rifle into you, Sherlock, on the ground. I wanted to.”

“But that would have ruined the suicide.” I said. “Jim didn’t want me murdered. He wanted me utterly disgraced, dead by my own hand.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t kill him, Mary. Jim killed himself.”

“Don’t lie to –“

“We were at an impasse.” I interjected forcefully. “Jim and me. I knew he could call you off – you and the other snipers. He knew that I could work out how, that I could make him tell me. Jim understood me – my genius – better than anyone. He understood what I am capable of – that I am capable of everything he was. Everything. He shot himself, killed himself, so I couldn’t make him tell me how to stop you killing my friends, so I’d HAVE to jump. He killed himself because it was the only way he could win.”

“That’s not true! Jim wouldn’t–”

“To win? To beat ME? His nemesis. His obsession. Of course, he would. You KNOW he would. After everything he did to engineer my disgrace, my suicide, the lengths he went to. You were part of it. You knew him. You know he would have done whatever it took.” 

Mary looked shattered and I knew she believed me. “That won’t save you.” She said dully. “You’re still going to watch your friends die.”

“Mary.” It was John, his voice soft. “You really did all that for me? Re-made yourself?”

Mary’s eyes turned back to John, her longing apparent. “Yes.” The syllable was barely audible.

“No one has ever done anything like that for me. No one. I’m just an average bloke –”

“You aren’t!” Mary cried, her voice soft but firm. I had to agree with her, John was far from average – average was his camouflage. “You’re courageous and kind and capable! You’re handsome and… and so strong! People don’t look at you because HE’s so ridiculous.” She gestured towards me with her gun. “They’re stupid. You’re so much better than he is.”

“You’re the first person to say that. The first person to see ME.” That wasn’t true – I had said as much, and more. But I stayed as quiet and still as possible, my eyes downcast, willing Mary to forget about me.

“You’re special, John.” In my peripheral vision I saw his eyes, soft and reassuring. He had his hands splayed, palms outward in offering. He had stepped closer to her.

“Can we… can we talk, Mary? I had no idea you felt this way.”

She sighed. “There’s no more time.”

“There’s time if we make it.” John said. “There’s all the time in the world.”

“I’m not letting her go.” Mary said. But it wasn’t as vehement.

John shrugged. “Lock her in the bog – lock them both in the bog. I don’t want them listening in anyway.”

“Do you really think I’m that stupid, John?”

John smiled – a smile so sweet and fond that bile rose in my throat. Why had I thought he couldn’t act? “No. I think you’re tired. I think you’ve been working so hard for such a long time. You deserve a few minutes to relax. We can sit down together. You have the gun, you’re in charge.”

I could see she was wavering. She had to know that shooting Mrs. Hudson would turn him against her irrevocably – and she didn’t want that. She had been resigned to it, but she didn’t want it. She wanted John – she had been painstakingly conditioned to want him. I could see that against her better judgement his soft words ignited a flaring of hope inside her.

She turned more toward him, opening her posture. Her grip on Mrs. Hudson loosened infinitesimally and she lowered the gun almost three inches. “John–” 

John moved like lightning. He was on her in an instant, slapping the gun from her hand into his own and turning it on her so quickly I wasn’t certain how he’d done it. I’d known John was highly trained in hand-to-hand combat, but this move surprised even me. 

For a second Mary looked startled – aghast – but her rage overtook her and she lunged at John, screaming. Before I could move to help him, John put his elbow in the way of her face. She hit it with force and staggered back. Mrs. Hudson, free from Mary’s grip, fled past me into the hallway. I heard her running footsteps on the stairs. She would call 999 from her flat.

Mary had a moment to recover as John reengaged the safety on the handgun. That tiny distraction was enough, she reconnoitered and attacked again, clawing at his eyes. But by then I had joined the fray and caught her wrists before she could do any damage. She was tiny, just over five feet, her wrists as delicate as bird bones. But she fought me with a feral ferocity.

John stepped back and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. “There are zip ties under the sink.” John said to me. “Go get them.”

I handed her over to him and with some difficulty, he pulled both her arms behind her back. I zip tied her wrists together as she struggled, kicking and spitting. John hauled her over to the couch and pushed her down. “Tie her ankles together too.” He commanded, pushing Mary onto her side and leaning on her, subduing her with his weight. 

Mary snarled curses and writhed under him. She kicked at me as I tried to bind her ankles together. “Stop it!” John commanded in his ‘Captain Watson’ voice. “Or I’ll knock you out and tie you up.”

“Go ahead.” Mary spat. “Hit me, John. If you can.”

She was right, the odds of John hitting her were close to nil – I’d been surprised he’d put his elbow into her face when she attacked him. She was a woman, attractive and petite, and she was at his mercy. It didn’t matter that she was Moriarty’s creature, not to John’s sense of honour.

Before I could offer to hit Mary myself, John did something I couldn’t quite see from my position at her feet. He took hold of her shoulder, or perhaps her neck, and several long seconds later, Mary went limp.

“Vasovagus syncope.” I observed with admiration. Overstimulation of the vagus nerve caused a sudden drop in blood pressure and thus fainting. My John was a soldier AND a doctor. I’d have to get him to show me how it was done.

“Tie her ankles.” John said tersely. “She won’t be out long.

I zip tied her ankles together tightly, using several of the black plastic restraints. She wouldn’t be able to remove them without scissors or a blade of some sort. John used another to make certain her wrists were securely bound. Then he looped a tie through the bindings on her wrists and ankles, hog tying her. 

She came to less than a minute later, cursing us. John already had his phone to his ear, telling Lestrade that we needed him.

I was hot, sweating with adrenaline and arousal. John was magnificent! Amazing! We’d have to use the zip ties again in a more intimate moment. The thought of John binding my wrists and using his strength and weight to force me down woke my cock up thoroughly.   
I took a deep breath and stepped back. Now was not the time, but it was a comfort to know my desire for him was as strong as it ever was. 

Perhaps I wasn’t as damaged as I thought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long! I'm working on another, it should come more quickly than this.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress.


End file.
